


Rules and Exceptions

by smartgirlsaremean



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Basically, Gabriel is not a total wanker, M/M, Mentions of Child Abandoment, Mutual Pining, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, Teacher!Aziraphale, Uncle AJ aka Crowley, because Shadwell, but there may be lemons later, currently rated M for Crowley's language, folks, he says fuck a lot, looks like this has turned into a, some homophobic language, the Dowlings are officially the worst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2020-10-10 21:31:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 62,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartgirlsaremean/pseuds/smartgirlsaremean
Summary: Against his will and his better judgment, Anthony J. Crowley has - well, obtained, for lack of a better word - guardianship of his nephew Warlock. When Warlock starts having trouble at school, the boy's history teacher, Mr. Fell, asks for a parent-teacher conference.Neither the conference nor the teacher are anything like what Crowley expects.





	1. Parent-Teacher Conference

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. I needed another WIP like I needed another hole in the head, but here we are. I'm super into this one right now though so there are hopes that it will actually get finished at some point.
> 
> A few notes of explanation: Harriet is Crowley's younger sister, but she's still married to Thaddeus, the American ambassador. Crowley and Aziraphale live in the States for both dramatic and practical reasons (like, I don't know anything about the British school system).
> 
> Tell me what you think, and if I should continue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is called into a parent-teacher conference for his nephew, and leaves with a solid behavior plan for the kid, plus a little something more.
> 
> Namely, a bit of a crush on the teacher.

With great effort, Crowley resisted the urge to throw his phone against the wall. He’d known it was only a matter of time, really, and there was no point scaring the kid. Grinding his teeth, he stalked down the hall to the one room in the apartment he rarely entered and knocked on the door.

“Kid?”

“What.”

“Can I come in?”

“Guess so.”

He slowly pushed the door open to find Warlock sitting on his bed, staring intently at his tablet while music played quietly. Crowley paused and tilted his head, listening. “_ Day at the Races _?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good choice.”

Warlock shrugged, and Crowley scratched the back of his neck, wondering how he ought to begin.

“You need something, or did you just want to quiz me on Queen albums?” Warlock asked, and Crowley gave a reluctant smirk before dropping into awkward seriousness again.

“You want to tell me what happened at school today?”

“No.”

Scrubbing one hand through his hair, Crowley took a deep breath. “I got a call from your history teacher. Mr. Fell.”

“Social studies. They don’t call it history anymore.”

“Whatever. He told me what happened. His side, anyway. I want to hear _ your _ side.”

Warlock shrugged. “Fell’s okay. Probably told the truth.”

“Why would you…?”

“Cuz.”

“_ Kid _.”

“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“It’s only eight-thirty.”

“Whatever.” And Warlock slithered down so that he was lying on his side facing the wall, the tablet propped up in front of him.

“Kid, come on,” Crowley said, frustration seeping into his voice.

“Night.”

He had no tools for this. He wasn't the kid’s _ father _, for fuck’s sake, he was just the uncle who was apparently a little too obviously fond of him when he was little. Fond enough to give his horrible sister the grand idea to send her son to live with him, a bachelor approaching the wrong side of fifty whose domestic talents stopped at raising houseplants.

Gorgeous, verdant houseplants, sure, but a little less complex than an actual human teenager. A human teenager who had been treated like a monster, abandoned by his parents, and sent to another country without so much as a by your leave. A human teenager who was sad and angry and scared and hurting. A human teenager Crowley had _ no idea _ how to help.

He could fucking kill Harriet.

* * *

**Three Months Earlier**

“I can’t take this anymore, Tony,” Harriet said, her voice rising on every syllable. “He's such a little monster! He’s rude, he’s irresponsible, he’s reckless, he’s...hell, he’s just like _ you _ were at his age. He was suspended _ three times _ this year ! I just _ can’t _…”

“Of course you can,” Crowley said, infusing as much reassurance into his voice as he could.

“No. No, I really can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice. He’s your kid, your responsibility. What are you gonna do…”

“_Mom, they’re calling my flight.” _

“Hattie?” Crowley felt his blood pressure spike. “Where are you?”

“We’re at Heathrow.”

“...Why?”

“I told you, Tony. I can’t do this. He’s nothing like me or Tad, he’s...he’s you all over again. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

“_ Me _ ?” Crowley leapt to his feet. “Are you _ fucking insane _? You can’t just…”

But Harriet wasn’t listening to him. He could hear muffled sounds, arguing, what sounded like a loudspeaker announcement and then, finally, his sister’s voice again. “He’s on the plane, Tony. He should get to JFK in about seven and a half hours.”

“I- wh- you-” Crowley took a deep breath and tried to calm down, since it wouldn’t do to have a stroke. “You have done some truly horrible things in your life, Harriet, but this is by far the foulest, vilest…”

“If I’m so terrible, Warlock will be better off with you anyway,” Harriet said coldly. “It’s you or a boarding school at this point.”

“If I keep him,” Crowley growled, clutching his phone so tightly he was astonished it was still in one piece, “_ if _ he agrees to stay with me, because _ he’ll _ get to make that choice. _ If _ I keep him, you’ll _ never _ get him back, do you hear me?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“_Threatening you _? After the stunt you just pulled? I could have you fucking arrested for this shit!”

“Arrested for what? I sent my son to live with his uncle for a year. Happens all the time.”

“I have to go,” Crowley ground out. “Apparently I have to get ready to host a teenager.”

One panicked trip to IKEA later, Crowley had acquired at least the basics of a teenager’s bedroom: a bed, a desk, a bureau. He figured he’d let Warlock decorate however he wanted - or not. He had wanted to take some time to have a nice relaxing breakdown, but by the time he had everything set up it was time to go to the airport, and then he was standing at the arrivals gate nervously looking for a boy he hadn’t seen in three years.

Just as he was wondering if he’d got the wrong gate, a flight attendant approached him with a sour look on her face. “Are you Mr. Crawly?” she asked.

“Crowley. Yeah.”

“And you’re expecting a young boy?”

“Warlock Dowling. Is he okay?”

“Well,” the young woman bit her lip, “yes. Only, he had a rough flight. All by himself, y’see. He’s waiting just inside the gate...he wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

Crowley felt his heart fracture. “Well, I am.”

“I’ll let him know.” She paused then, looking uncertain. “Look,” she said, “I don’t know what’s going on, and it’s none of my business, but he’s really sad and scared.”

“He’ll be okay.” Crowley hoped he wasn’t lying.

The young woman smiled at him as she left, and when she returned she had his nephew with her, and Crowley felt his heart break further. Warlock kept his gaze trained on the floor, his chin-length hair hanging in his face, and Crowley had to fold his lanky frame down to get him to meet his eyes.

“Hey, kid. Long time no see.”

Shrug.

“You got bags?”

Nod.

“I helped him get through customs,” the attendant said. “He’s got a trolley just over here.”

“Okay.” He stood and gave her a small smile. “I’ve got it from here, thanks.”

Warlock’s silence continued throughout the process of collecting his bags, searching for Crowley’s car in the car park, and suffering through New York’s traffic. He helped drag his bags into the lift of Crowley’s building and then stood stock-still in the middle of his room.

“So,” Crowley said when he thought he might suffocate from the silence. “This is it. Figured you could do what you want with it.” The kid seemed to shrink. “If...if you want to stay, I mean.”

Ah. A reaction. Warlock looked up at him then, his expression incredulous.

“Look, kid,” Crowley said, stepping in and crouching down to meet his eyes. “I know this wasn’t your call. If you want to go home, I’ll put you on a plane tomorrow, no questions asked. If you want to stay…I’ll be honest, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing here. I’ll screw up a lot, and I might even ruin your childhood, I dunno. But I can tell you this, you’ll always be welcome here. Forever. I’ll _ never _ send you away. Got it?”

Warlock shrugged.

“I don’t have to register you for school for another month, so you’ve got time, okay? Just...think about it.”

Silence. Crowley fidgeted a little and then finally stood. He was halfway out the door when he heard it.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, kid.”

* * *

**Present Day**

The conference was scheduled for the next day, and Crowley was going in mostly blind. Thanks to Fell he more or less knew what had happened, but he knew so little about American high schools and discipline. Would the headmaster - er, principal - be there? Was suspension on the line? The secretary in the office graciously directed him to Fell’s room, and Crowley took a few deep breaths before making his way up the stairs and down the hall. As he approached, he saw that Warlock was standing just outside the half-open door, looking like a rabbit about to bolt.

“What’s up, kid?” he asked.

“Principal Clark is in there.” Warlock’s eyes were huge. “Mr. Fell said this would be just us.”

Crowley’s jaw clenched. If Fell had _ lied _ to the kid…he stepped closer to the door where he could distinguish two voices.

“...if the boy is a potential danger to others…” Clark.

“Warlock is no such thing.” That was Fell. Crowley had been taken aback yesterday by the posh London accent, and he was taken aback again, but for slightly different reasons. “He’s not a _ menace _, Gabriel. He’s a boy, and he needs help. I appreciate your concern, but I have no need of administrative oversight here.”

“I just thought you should know all your options.”

“I have been teaching for more than thirty years,” Fell said dryly. “I am _ aware _ of my options, thank you.”

“All the same. Don’t stay too late. You’re not on contract time, y’know.”

“Good night, Gabriel.”

The door swung open and Crowley leapt inelegantly back, but not before Clark spotted him and gave him a large, bright, painfully fake smile. “Hello, there! Mr. Crawly, isn’t it? And Warlock?” He shook his head slightly at the kid. “I hear you’ve been getting into some mischief.”

Warlock shrank back and Crowley nearly bared his teeth.

“Mr. Crowley? So sorry to keep you waiting.” Clark was gently shoved forward and Fell appeared in the doorway. “Won’t you come in? You too, Warlock.”

If Clark’s smile was painfully fake, Fell’s was painfully genuine. Warlock seemed to soften a little and slunk into the room without looking up from the floor, and Crowley began to follow him, but was stopped by Clark’s hand on his shoulder.

“I was just offering to sit in on this meeting,” he said. “Thought you and Azi might like...a more _ authoritative _presence. Just to drive everything home, y’know?”

“I’ve already declined Mr. Clark’s generous offer,” Fell said, his voice hardening. “But of course if you think it best…”

“Nah, I’m good,” Crowley said. “Thanks anyway.”

“Well. I should be in the office for another…”

“Good _ night _, Gabriel.”

Clark finally dropped his hand, and Crowley was free to walk through the door, which Fell politely but firmly shut in Clark’s face.

“Prick,” Crowley said.

Fell gave him a stern look. “Gabriel has his own unique style of leadership, and it works well for most students. I simply don’t think his particular approach is what’s needed in this instance.”

“And what is needed?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure, to be honest. I have a few ideas, but I was hoping the three of us could figure that out together.” He gave another genuine smile and motioned to a corner of his classroom that was lined with bookshelves and armchairs. “Do have a seat.”

Not knowing what else to do, Crowley sat. Warlock leaned against a wall beside him, and together they watched as Fell gathered up some papers from his desk and made his way over to them.

Whatever Crowley had been expecting from a high school social studies teacher, Fell was decidedly not it. For one thing, he was dressed exactly like someone’s stereotype of a teacher: an ugly beige jumper over an eggshell-blue button-down and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. For another, he’d apparently _ not _ sent Warlock to the office yesterday even though the kid had probably deserved it, which meant he was either incredibly patient or incredibly soft - jury was out on which. Maybe both. And for another - and this was completely apropos of nothing and didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things but was worth noting for accuracy’s sake - he was…

He was, quite frankly, _ gorgeous _. His white-blond curls almost looked more like feathers than hair, his twinkling eyes were the exact colour of his shirt, and his smile made Crowley grateful for his sunglasses because he might have gone blind from the sheer brilliance of it. He was a few inches shorter than Crowley and at least a stone heavier, and there was something very soft and warm and inviting about him, and...

Anyway. None of this was remotely important at the moment. It was just something he _ noticed _. Couldn’t help it.

“Now then,” Fell said finally, wiggling a bit as he settled into his seat. “Warlock, have you had a chance to tell your uncle about what happened yesterday?”

Warlock shrugged.

“That’s the one that means no,” Crowley said. When Fell raised his eyes at him, Crowley elaborated. “I see those shrugs a lot. Almost like sign language at this point.”

“I see. Warlock, dear boy.” Fell’s focus returned to the kid, and Crowley felt properly chastised. “It really is important that you tell your uncle in your own words what happened. I can give an overview and a bit of context, but it would really be much better for him to hear it from you.”

Warlock looked down at his hands, glanced at Crowley, and then up at the ceiling. “Said some stuff. Told Mr. Fell to screw his assignments, I don’t need any of it, and to leave me alone.”

“That’s what happened when I asked you to switch seats with someone,” Fell said gently. “What had happened before that?”

Warlock scuffed his shoe on the floor. “Does it matter? Shouldn’t talk to teachers like that.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t appreciate your language, especially as I was only trying to help you move to a spot in the room where you could work undisturbed.”

“Yeah.” Warlock’s shoulders hunched up to his ears. “Sorry.”

“I accept your apology, dear boy.” He paused. “But the apology is worthless if a change of behaviour doesn’t follow it, and that’s what we have to talk about tonight.”

This was, hands down, the weirdest fucking parent-teacher conference Crowley had ever been in. True, all of his had been way too many years ago and he’d been a downright terror in school, but he was pretty sure parent-teacher conferences usually involved a lot more...well...parents and teachers talking.

“If you don’t want to tell your uncle what happened to upset you,” Fell was saying now, “would you mind if I told him, and you can correct me if I get it wrong?” Warlock shrugged - the yes shrug this time, Crowley noted. He noted further that Fell seemed to understand it. “Alright,” Fell said. He turned to look at Crowley. “Warlock, as you know, is in my Current Issues class. Yesterday during a class activity about the differences between a democratic republic and a constitutional monarchy, another student insisted that citizens in England were not allowed to vote for their leaders. Warlock set him straight - politely, I might add - and pointed out that he had grown up in London and seen the campaigns.” Fell looked apologetically at Warlock, who was picking at his fingernails. “The other student - ah - well, he told Warlock that if he loved England so much, he should have stayed there.”

Crowley felt his stomach drop.

“I’m afraid things rather went downhill from there. Warlock didn’t retaliate verbally, not right away, but...things were very tense at his table. I had already talked to the other student and reminded him that all people and viewpoints are welcome in class. They were snippy with each other for the rest of the period - hiding each other’s pencils and closing each other’s laptops, things like that - and I asked Warlock if he would like to move to another table to work. That’s when he had his...well, his outburst.”

“‘msorry,” Warlock muttered. “I didn't...wasn’t _ you _.”

“I know,” Fell said, “but this isn’t the first time you’ve expressed yourself in an inappropriate manner. Remember last week’s incident in Coach Shadwell’s class?”

Shadwell, as far as Crowley was concerned, could fuck right off. He was every teacher Crowley had ever hated, and watched Warlock just a little too suspiciously for his taste. Still, standing in the middle of the gym and screaming “Foosball is the _ Devil _ !” was definitely inappropriate, even if it was fucking hilarious. **1**

“Okay, so what?” Crowley asked, quite ready to be part of this conversation. “We can’t just have this conversation every time he shoots off at the mouth.”

Fell raised his eyebrows. “No. But we can think of ways to help him express himself in the moment that won’t end up with him in a fight and suspended.”

“A fight? Hang on.” Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Warlock wouldn’t hurt a fly. He might mouth off, but he’d _ never _ throw a punch.”

“The teenage brain is a strange and wonderful thing,” Fell said firmly. “It’s creating millions of new neural pathways and preparing the body for adulthood, but it sometimes gets things wrong. Sometimes it perceives threats where there are none, and dictates responses disproportionate to the stimulus. Warlock might never _ mean _ to get in a fight, but every creature on earth will lash out if it feels threatened. What we need to do,” and Fell trained his gaze back on Warlock, “is help your brain to understand that you are in no danger here. That you are safe. That even the sometimes hurtful words of your friends - your peers - even your teachers pose no real threat to you.”

“How do we do _ that _?” Crowley asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

“We start small.” Fell pulled out a laminated piece of paper. “I’ve gone over this with Principal Clark and he’s agreed...tentatively. This is a ‘cool-down pass.’ It authorizes you to go to a predetermined room for a brief cool-down period when you feel angry or overwhelmed. It’s my hope that you will find at least one room in this school that feels safe to you. We can work up from there and help you to feel safe in every room in the building, but this is a start. It should help to remind you that you can control your reactions, and that you don’t have to lash out whenever you feel upset.”

“You can do that?” Crowley interrupted. “Just...he can just leave class whenever he’s angry? Seems like it could backfire.”

Fell smiled. “Well, I trust Warlock to use this pass wisely. Principal Clark’s permission was given _ very _ conditionally.” He shared a glance with Warlock. “It’s always best not to test his... _ mercy _. Now then,” Fell pulled out a felt-tip pen and looked expectantly at the kid, “what do you think?”

Warlock shrugged. “Can’t hurt to try, I guess.”

“Good. Is there a particular room we should start with? Any teacher who makes you feel especially safe and welcomed? Ms. Device, perhaps? She’s very popular, I know.”

“Nah,” Warlock grunted. “You.”

Fell blinked, his face blank with surprise. “M-me? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. If. If that’s okay.”

“Oh, my dear boy, it’s _ more _ than okay.” Fell beamed at him. “What a _ wonderful _ compliment.” Warlock’s face turned red and he hunched so far down in his jacket that he began to resemble a turtle. Crowley was fairly certain he was going to go blind even with his sunglasses on if Fell kept smiling like that. After writing his own name and room number on the pass, Fell set it aside and looked back at Warlock. “I’ll email your teachers after we leave here and inform them of the plan,” he said. Then, finally, he turned to Crowley. “From what you said on the phone, things are going fairly smoothly at home?”

“Yeah. I mean, he gets moody and stuff but he just...sits with his music on and he calms down.” Crowley felt as if a light bulb had gone off over his head. “Could...could that be a thing? Not all the time, obviously, but like, if they’re all working on worksheets or whatever, could he bring an iPod or his phone or something and listen to music if he gets overwhelmed?”

Fell's eyes twinkled. “That is an _ excellent _ idea,” he said. **2 **“I can’t speak for all of my colleagues, but I’ll put out some feelers and see if we can’t get a waiver for headphone usage - at the teacher’s discretion, obviously.” He looked back at Warlock. “You would have to be very responsible, Warlock, and not wear them during lectures or when a teacher asks for your attention.”

“Yeah,” Warlock said, his eyes looking somewhat less haunted. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Wonderful.” Fell beamed again, and Crowley swore the temperature in the room rose a few degrees. “I’ll let everyone know what we’ve decided tonight, and I’ll be in touch if anything changes.” He swept them both with his smile. “Thank you _ so _ much for coming in tonight. I know it can’t have been very exciting for either of you, but I think we’ve made some real progress.”

Not exciting? Okay, maybe not in the traditional sense, but Crowley had never met anyone like Fell and that was a bit of an adventure all on its own. “So what about yesterday, then?” Crowley said. “Does he need to serve a detention, or…?”

“Oh, no,” Fell said, standing and shuffling his papers together. “I’m far more interested in addressing the _ cause _ of a behaviour than the behaviour itself. He’s already apologized, I’ve accepted, and we’ve come up with a plan that will prevent the behaviour being repeated. Besides,” he shot Crowley a sly smile that did truly unfortunate things to Crowley’s nervous system, “he had to stay at school after hours and trade small-talk with Principal Clark. What punishment could I devise that would be worse?”

“Right. Okay. So. We’re done here?”

“We are, unless you have something more.”

Crowley hesitated, then fished his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to his nephew. “Go start the car, kid.”

“_Really!? _”

“If she’s moved one quarter of an inch when I get down there, you’ll be grounded for a month.”

Warlock bolted for the door as if afraid his uncle would change his mind. When he was gone, Crowley turned to Fell. “Look, Mr. Fell…”

“Aziraphale.”

“Ah- what?”

“My name. Please call me Aziraphale. Only students call me Mr. Fell. What can I do for you?”

“Um. Right. So...has Warlock told you why he’s living with me and not his parents?”

“No.” Aziraphale (God, the name really did suit him better than Fell) looked troubled. “He’s never mentioned...and he’s perfectly within his rights not to tell me, obviously. I hope everything is…”

“Everything is _ shite _ because they’re _ shitty parents _ who sent their kid away because they couldn’t handle him. I didn’t even know people _ did _ that anymore. Just, fsskt, oh, you got suspended, let all the frogs loose in the bio lab, off to your mad uncle’s with you!”

“I take it _ you’re _ the mad uncle.”

“Well, the weird one anyway.”

“And you don’t have children of your own?”

Crowley started to snicker, but he was brought up short by the vaguely familiar _ something _ in the tone of Aziraphale’s voice. Something he hadn’t heard in _ ages _, and if he was right… “Fuck, no. Confirmed bachelor, that’s what I am.”

Aziraphale’s lips pressed into a prim expression that was absolutely _ adorable _ . “Kindly watch your language in my classroom.” He shuffled papers around on his desk and glanced over at Crowley and...okay, yeah, that was _ definitely _ a once-over, and Crowley resisted the urge to preen. “Well, all things considered, Warlock is doing very well. He seems very fond of you.”

“Yeah, I’m fond of him too. He’s a good kid, just...y’know.”

“I do.”

There was another stretch of silence and Crowley decided to do a little fishing of his own. “So...should probably get down there before the kid decides to leave me here, grounding or no grounding. And somebody’s probably waiting for you.” Mmm, yes, really nailed that one - just the right amount of casual curiosity.

Aziraphale looked fully at him, his eyes widening a smidge, and then back at his desk with the smallest of smiles. “Oh, yes, no doubt Oscar is _ wild _with worry.”

_ Shit _. “Erm…”

“It...it was a bit of a joke?” Aziraphale looked nervous. “Oscar...Wilde?”

“Oh. Ha. Right.”

“Bit out of practice with the jokes.” Aziraphale closed the briefcase he’d been packing and straightened. “I spend most of my time with people who still think flatulence is the highest form of comedy.”

Crowley laughed outright and earned another little smile as he held the door open for the teacher. “Did you say you’ve been doing this for thirty years?”

“Oh yes. Sometimes it feels like thirty centuries.”

“Any advice?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Teaching and parenting are vastly different, you know. I wouldn’t presume to…”

“You’ve got to know more than I do. Come on. Your best piece of advice.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale sighed as he led Crowley down the stairs. “I’ll say this: never make any promises you can’t keep. You have his love already, but love is easy. It grows on its own. Trust takes time and effort, you have to build it. You’ll occasionally slip up, but if you acknowledge your mistakes and keep your word, you’ll be off to a good start.” They had reached the front doors and Aziraphale paused, turning to face him. “Any other questions?”

_ Yeah. Care to go for a drink sometime? _ The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back. Aziraphale was handsome, kind, brilliant - and his nephew’s _ teacher _ . Asking him out would be a _ catastrophically _bad idea. “Nah.”

“If you think of any, you can reach me by email or telephone,” Aziraphale said, producing a card, and Crowley’s heart, completely against his better judgment, fluttered as he took it. Sure, it was a work number, but it was a _ number _ nonetheless. He was holding the contact information of the most intriguing person he’d met in years, and he hadn’t even had to ask.

“Right. Okay.” They had reached his car, and Crowley was floundering for something else to say when Aziraphale gasped.

“Goodness, is that your car?”

Crowley grinned. “Yep. Had her shipped over from England, couldn’t bear to leave her behind.” The fully restored 1933 Bentley was his prized possession and quite possibly the love of his life. Sleek and black and shining, she looked as if she had just rolled off the line, with one small exception.

“Are those...bullet hole decals?” Aziraphale asked, his voice deepening as he tried to suppress laughter. “Warlock’s touch, I presume.”

“Erm. No.” Crowley felt his ears go red. “Found ‘em at a petrol station.”

“I see.” Aziraphale swept him with a rather appraising glance and Crowley prayed the colour wasn’t spreading down his neck. “Why not just buy an Aston Martin and be done with it?”

Crowley was about to respond with something extremely witty when the blare of the car’s horn nearly made him jump out of his skin.

“Oi!” He turned to glare at his nephew - he was exceptionally good at glaring through sunglasses.

“I’m _ hungry! _” Warlock shouted back, grinning unapologetically.

“Ugh, guess I’d better go feed the gremlin,” Crowley grumbled at a giggling Aziraphale. Inspiration struck. “You could, uh...join us. If you like.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Aziraphale said gently, his expression dimming a little. “And I really must be going. Good night, Mr. Crowley.” He gave Warlock a final wave and turned to walk away.

“Just Crowley!” Crowley called after him, earning himself another smile before Aziraphale disappeared around the corner of the building.

He finally approached the Bentley, waving at Warlock to scoot across the seat, and peeled out of the car park. With his nephew in the car he tried to keep the speeding to a minimum, but he’d always had a lead foot and old habits were hard to break. Besides, the kid loved it.

“Nice guy,” Crowley remarked. “See why you like him.”

“What were you guys talking about?” Warlock asked.

“How I can not screw this up,” Crowley said (mostly) honestly. “Let’s be honest, I’m not off to a great start.”

“It’s not your fault that I do stupid shit,” Warlock slumped a little in his seat. “I get so mad and then I just...maybe Mom’s right. Maybe I’m just bad.”

“Whoa, kid, come on. Your mum also thinks I’m a loser. Do I _ look _ like a loser to you?”

“You look like a mobster.”

“But not a loser?”

“...No?”

“Exactly. So your mum...she’s a smart lady, but she’s not right about everything. You’re not bad, kid. Weren’t we just talking about your brain and stuff? And how we’re going to teach it to...think better?” Warlock shrugged. “So we’ll work on it. Nobody’s all good or all bad. It’s all about choices.”

There was silence in the car for a few seconds, but Warlock had something on his mind. “Did _ you _ like Mr. Fell?” he asked.

“Uh.” Crowley’s hands flexed on the steering wheel. “Like I said. Nice guy.”

“You were smiling at him.”

“So?”

“You don’t smile at anybody.”

“Sure I do. I smile at you.” He turned a fierce, toothy snarl on his nephew.

“Wow, thanks for the nightmares. So...you did like him?”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, okay? I liked him. What do you care?”

Warlock shrugged and turned to look out the window, his curiosity apparently satisfied, and Crowley decided that a special treat was in order. McDonald’s it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 “I hate American football,” Warlock had said at home, apparently more forthcoming about his reasons for being a jerk when the teacher was an arsehole. “It doesn’t make any sense, and the guys who play it at my school are stupid bullies.” Crowley hadn’t disagreed with him.  
  
2 Crowley suppressed a shiver; he hadn't been praised so enthusiastically in ages.
> 
> *~*~*~*
> 
> There's a documentary called Paper Tigers that completely changed how I thought about "problem kids." Basically, convention teaches us that bad kids are bad by choice, and that they need to be "scared straight" or whatever. What we've learned since, though, is that childhood trauma affects the development of the brain, creating an over-developed "fear center" and underdeveloped "logic center." Kids who have experienced trauma see danger around every corner. The irritation of an adult, according to their experience, could lead to violence against them, so their brains overreact and they are immediately on the defensive. Essentially they can't tell the difference between a true threat and an imagined one, and they can become completely preoccupied with fighting the paper tigers their brains create.
> 
> Warlock, thank God, has never experienced physical violence, but he has endured severe trauma. Even before he was sent away, it's obvious that his parents were neglectful, even outright emotionally abusive. He's not completely in control of his reactions, and he's so lucky to have a teacher like Aziraphale who understands that.


	2. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since a certain parent-teacher conference, Aziraphale has been feeling a bit restless.

It had taken all of Aziraphale’s willpower - though admittedly, he didn’t have much - to decline Crowley’s invitation.

As far as the public is concerned, teachers do not have favourite students, but the reality is that teachers are humans, not saints or angels, and they simply cannot help but form the occasional extra-special bond with an exceptional student. For Aziraphale, Warlock Dowling had been one of those students ever since the boy wandered into his classroom, with his large sad dark eyes and slight British accent, and touched Aziraphale’s lonely, homesick heart. He so very clearly needed affection and attention, and Aziraphale had always had a soft spot for the lost and broken.

Open favouritism was simply unacceptable though, and...socializing...with the parents of students was decidedly frowned upon, though not expressly forbidden. Perhaps, one could argue, a single dinner couldn’t hurt, but one would have to have no knowledge at all of Aziraphale and his hedonistic tendencies to assert such a thing. One dinner with a man like Crowley could  _ most definitely  _ hurt.

Aziraphale had not been this attracted to a person in  _ years _ . When Crowley had sauntered into his classroom, the feeling had washed over him quite suddenly, and he had tried valiantly not to look him over too obviously. Tall, slim, and redhaired, with high sharp cheekbones and a finely sculpted nose and mouth, dressed in unrelieved black, he looked the adult version of every dangerous, disreputable boy with whom Aziraphale had been infatuated in high school.

And at university.

And, really, at every stage of his life.

He had a type, to be quite frank, and Anthony J. Crowley was the living embodiment of it, which meant that agreeing to dinner - riding in that lovingly restored antique car and sitting across a table from those perfect cheekbones and handsome smiles - was an  _ extraordinarily  _ bad idea, even if one factored in the sobering presence of a perceptive and extremely vulnerable teenager. The very  _ last _ thing Warlock needed right now was to feel that he was merely a means to an end. He’d been horribly betrayed by his parents, and how he might react to his uncle and his teacher...well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Besides, Aziraphale told himself, he was probably imagining the interest in Crowley’s voice and words. A man like  _ him _ could probably have his pick of romantic prospects.

Of course, he’d been doing this for thirty years, and not once, ever, had a parent invited him to dinner after a conference. And he was fairly certain Crowley had been trying to determine whether or not he was single before they left the classroom. Pure curiosity, perhaps?

With a frustrated groan Aziraphale went to his bookcase and pulled out a book at random. He needed to distract himself.

* * *

Three weeks into Warlock’s new behaviour plan, things were going much more smoothly than Aziraphale could have hoped. Warlock was in his room fairly often, mostly during p.e., which Aziraphale planned to discuss with him soon. Ms. Device had sent him a triumphant email about the incredible work Warlock had done on a creative essay, and the boy hadn’t been sent to the office once. Warlock smiled a little more easily these days, although he still had moments when he would shove his headphones over his ears and try to block out the world, but that was really only to be expected.

Phone calls home to update Crowley on Warlock’s progress were a must, and Aziraphale was always impressed with Crowley’s instincts. He tried very hard not to encourage any less-than-professional feelings, but really, the man made it very difficult to remain detached. He was so determined to “get it right,” as he said, so committed to his cause. Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire him.

Friday evenings were usually dull, and in the past Aziraphale had never sought to make them otherwise. Recently, however, he had had the urge to do something. Anything, really. He was used to solitude and silence, but somewhere around seven o’clock on a Friday evening late in September, peaceful solitude had changed to unbearable loneliness. His skin fairly itched with it.

That was how he found himself in a bar. It wasn’t a particularly distinguished establishment, but it was clean and not overly crowded. The music was of an acceptable volume and the drinks were passable. He was still alone, but at least he was alone in a crowd, and there was every possibility that he might find someone with whom to have a halfway decent conversation. Taking a sip of his wine, he let his eyes scan the patrons at the bar.

“Aziraphale?”

Wine, it turned out, was devilishly uncomfortable when inhaled. Aziraphale’s eyes watered as his lungs fought for oxygen, and he looked up to see a very concerned Crowley hovering over him.

“Wow. You okay?”

“Perfectly,” Aziraphale croaked. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. Fancy seeing you here.” He glanced around. “I presume Warlock isn’t with you.”

Crowley made a great show of looking around. “Aw, hell, did he give me the slip again? Little gremlin’s always running off and joining biker gangs.” Aziraphale huffed a laugh and Crowley grinned, sitting in the chair opposite. “He’s over at a friend’s tonight. Thought I’d remind myself what it was like to have a life.”

“Oh? And how’s that been?”

“Up until now, pretty dull.” Crowley smiled slowly and leaned back in his chair. “Things’re looking up, though.”

Aziraphale hoped the darkness of the bar would hide the flush on his cheeks. “Ah. Glad to hear it.”

“So. Long week?”

“No longer than usual,” Aziraphale said, feeling it safe to take another sip of wine. “Everyone’s getting comfortable and beginning to push boundaries. I don’t mind, really. What else is adolescence for?”

Crowley shook his head. “Could’ve used a teacher like you when I was in school. Menace to society, that's what they called me. Always breaking rules just to prove I could.”

“For example?”

Humming in thought, Crowley slouched further in his seat and Aziraphale felt a shoe nudge against his own. Politely, he moved his foot to give the taller man more room. “I guess the most scandalous was when my friend Beez and I switched uniforms for the day.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I assume Beez was a girl?”

Crowley shrugged, “No, but ze had to wear a skirt anyway. And, of course, I had to wear trousers because I happened to look like a bloke most of the time. We thought it was stupid. Why not offer the same uniform options to everyone? So we wore what we wanted. Felt good for the first half hour before we got sent home.”

“Some things have got immeasurably better, but others…” Aziraphale sighed. “I had a male-presenting student who wanted to wear a dress to commencement about five years ago and Principal Clark almost wouldn’t allow them to walk. When I heard, I decided that a show of solidarity was in order.”

Crowley almost choked on his drink. “You…?”

“I’m not fond of dresses, but I do occasionally wear a kilt. To Gabriel they’re practically the same thing. He couldn’t very well evict  _ me _ from the ceremony, especially as I was the one reading the names, and I made a further point that the school dress code was purposely written to avoid distinctions between male and female garb, so...Peyton was allowed to walk.”

“Huh. Good for them.” Crowley seemed to study him - it was hard to tell through those dark glasses - and then grinned. “You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re telling me there was  _ no other way _ of getting that kid permission to wear a dress? You just  _ had _ to challenge Clark’s authority in front of everybody?”

“Of course there were other choices,” Aziraphale said, trying not to smile. “There always are. I simply chose the most effective one.”

“And the one that was the most fun.”

“Coincidentally.”

“And I’ll bet you had a hand in  _ writing _ that dress code.”

“Could’ve done.”

Crowley’s smile widened. “Like I said. Bit of a bastard.”

For some reason, Aziraphale felt as if he’d been given a wonderful compliment; his chest tightened and a warm glow was spreading through his limbs. “I suppose we all have hidden depths. You seem to go to a great deal of trouble to make people think you aren’t as kind as you are.”

“Pfft. Nope. No depths here. Just a desperately cool misanthrope, that’s me.”

“A misanthrope who took on the care of a teenage boy with no warning or preparation whatsoever, and who actively sought out advice on how to raise him and make him feel safe and loved. Those sound like the actions of an exceptionally kind and caring individual to me.”

Crowley’s face turned an interesting shade of red. “Can it.”

“No, really. Practically a candidate for sainthood.”

The other man fidgeted in his seat. “Stop!”

“They’ll sing songs about your heroism.”

“Oi!” Crowley looked as if he was about to suffocate. “Shut it, you insufferable bastard!”

Aziraphale crossed his arms and smirked. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“Ugh, geese. I hate those stupid birds. Mean buggers.”

It was an obvious attempt at a subject change, and Aziraphale humoured him. Before the night was out they had thoroughly discussed the merits and drawbacks of geese, swans, ducks, dolphins, and pythons. It was one of the most ridiculous conversations he’d ever had, but Crowley was an unusually gifted conversationalist. They’d also continued to drink quite steadily, which was how Aziraphale justified their current position. Crowley had slouched even further down in his seat, his foot resting inescapably against Aziraphale’s. There was no reason to try to move away, Aziraphale thought. Completely innocent touch happening here. Who ever heard of brushing feet being erotic? **1 **

“Here’s a question for you,” Crowley said. He developed a bit of a lisp when he was drunk, and Aziraphale hadn’t thought it was possible to be  _ more _ attracted to him, but there it was. “What would you be if you weren’t a teacher?”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale tipped his head back to study the ceiling. It was a very nice ceiling, though he wished it would stop spinning slowly above him. “Could I be anything else? A libe- lirb-  _ liebararian _ , maybe. Books everywhere. Lifetimes of stories. Time to just...just sit and read and learn and dream.”

“Sounds a bit lonely.”

“Not with all my dearest friends around me. ‘Slike that at home. Just me and all my books.”

“Not tonight.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale stopped contemplating the ceiling and looked at Crowley, who had removed his glasses some time ago and was watching him with golden-brown eyes.

“They’re home. You’re not. If ‘snot lonely, why?”

Their gazes caught and held, and Aziraphale felt breathless, and inexplicably as if Crowley could see into his heart - could see that he’d grown restless the last few weeks as if he’d outgrown his own body, as if his skin was straining at the seams to contain all the long-buried dreams and wishes he’d once held so dear. Could see _ why _ he’d begun to feel that way, why he’d actually been considering striking up a conversation with a rather lanky man at the end of the bar before Crowley had spoken up and nearly drowned him with wine and surprise.

“What about you?” Aziraphale said finally. Crowley raised his eyebrows but did not challenge him.

“Whabbout me?”

“What would you be if you weren’t...whatever you are?”

“Snake.”

“You’re...a snake?”

“Nah, ‘m a florist. I’d  _ be _ a snake.”

A  _ florist _ . Oh, how utterly, devastatingly  _ charming _ . “Why a snake?”

“They’re all…” Crowley wiggled one arm in the air in a vague approximation of a slither. “Don’ have no legs, right? Get into tight corners and hide away. Sleep a lot. Lie in the sun. Plus...shed their skin. Get to reinv...revven...make new them. All the time.”

“You make it sound lovely,” Aziraphale said, leaning over the table. “But I, for one, am glad you aren’t a snake.”

“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a shy smile. “Me too.” The shoe against Aziraphale’s shifted ever so slightly and the pale, slim-fingered hand on the table slid closer, stopping just short of his little finger.

“Closing time!”

The strident call of the bartender broke the spell Aziraphale had fallen under, and he stood abruptly. “Goodness!” he said, clutching at the table to keep from toppling over. “I didn’t realize how late...really should head home.”

“I’d offer you a lift, but I’m a bit sozzled myself,” Crowley said, gazing up at him from his seat. “Don’t suppose you’d care to share a taxi?”

Oh, wouldn’t he  _ just _ . Wouldn’t it be simply  _ heaven _ to climb into the backseat of a car with this handsome, smirking, golden-eyed devil and let the city slip away from them as they headed back to one flat or another? To discover what those sinful lips tasted like, to run his fingers through that gorgeous hair?

He  _ could _ . They were adults, and Warlock wasn’t at home, and…

_ Warlock _ . The thought brought Aziraphale up short. The boy  _ trusted _ him, trusted them both, and promising as this attraction was, it was not worth destroying that trust. He was sure if Crowley were just a little less drunk he would agree.

“No need, but thank you for the offer,” Aziraphale said, trying for brisk and ending up somewhere between panicky and sharp. “It’s not a far walk.”

Crowley frowned. “I could…”

“No, really, don’t trouble yourself.” Aziraphale slipped away from the table. “It was wonderful to see you, Crowley. Have a lovely weekend.” And with that he hurried away as quickly as his inebriated legs could carry him.

Good  _ heavens _ . What a disaster  _ that _ would have been.

* * *

Crowley grumbled to himself all the way through paying his tab, walking out to the curb, and calling an Uber. Of course he  _ knew _ he shouldn’t be mad about someone turning down his advances, he was a fan of enthusiastic consent and anyway they were both fairly drunk so it would probably have been a bad idea anyway. But dammit, he’d been  _ so close _ to finding out if Aziraphale’s hands were as soft as they looked. A little hand-holding wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

He finally managed to stumble into his flat, kicking his shoes off as he went, and he had a sudden flashback to an earlier life, when he’d been young and stupid and invincible. He eyed the couch with longing, but he thought of Warlock coming home in the morning - he wouldn’t set a very good example passed out on the couch.

Come to think of it, he wouldn’t set a very good example trying to smuggle a one-night stand out of the flat, either. Not that Aziraphale would necessarily have been a one-night stand...but there wasn’t really any telling, was there?

The trouble was, Crowley was used to thinking only of himself: what he liked, what he wanted, what he needed. In that moment in the bar Aziraphale had represented all three of those things, and all he’d been able to think about was his own satisfaction (and Aziraphale’s; he flattered himself that no partner of his had ever had cause to complain). Warlock hadn’t even crossed his mind. That would have to change, he decided, forcing himself to drink an entire glass of water before going to bed properly. Warlock must come first, and if that meant taking a vow of chastity for the next four years, that was what he would do.

Just before he dropped off, it occurred to him that Aziraphale had probably come to the same realizations, and had been acting in the best interests of Warlock even when Crowley himself wasn’t.

Fuck.

He was just so  _ good _ …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Everyone. The answer is everyone. Erotic foot brushing is more commonly known as “playing footsie,” and quite literally everyone has heard of it. What's more, Aziraphale was very much aware of this fact.
> 
> Some mutual pining appears! Not much Warlock in this one, but the next chapter will be up in a few days and there is plenty of Warlock for everyone!


	3. Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock has a bad day.

Aziraphale drummed his fingers on his desk, frowning at his telephone. He  _ hated _ making these phone calls, but there really was no alternative. Steeling himself for a very unpleasant conversation, he entered a number that he now knew by heart.

“Crowley here.”

“Hello, Crowley. This is Aziraphale Fell.”

“Hullo, Aziraphale! How’s life at Hormone Central?”

“Chaotic as always. Crowley, I’m afraid we need to speak seriously.”

“...Oh.” Crowley sighed. “Shit. What’s happened?”

* * *

**Two Hours Earlier**

Aziraphale frowned at his roster. “Has anyone seen Warlock today?”

“Yeah,” Adam spoke up. “He’s been here all day.”

Perhaps he’d gone home sick? Aziraphale marked him as absent and began his lesson, only to be interrupted two minutes later by Warlock, who shoved the door so hard that it bounced against the wall and then threw himself into his chair, his legs sprawling.1

Without missing a beat, Aziraphale continued his instructions; when the rest of the class was busy with the assignment, he approached Warlock, who had put his headphones on and was sitting with arms crossed.

“Warlock, why were you so late to class?” he asked quietly.

Warlock shrugged. “Felt like it.”

“That’s your second tardy of the quarter. If you’re tardy a third time, you’ll have to serve a detention.”

Warlock rolled his eyes.

“Well. You’re here now,” Aziraphale said calmly. If he lost his temper every time a teenager rolled his eyes he’d have had several heart attacks by now. “Kindly turn down your music and get to work.

Warlock met his eyes, raised his hand to the volume control, and turned it  _ up. _

“Warlock. Do you need to use your cool-down pass?”

“Nope.”

Aziraphale studied him, but the boy had completely shut him out.

“This assignment is due at the end of the hour. I expect it to be completed and turned in.”

“Can’t hear you,” Warlock said loudly, gesturing at his headphones. The other students were turning to watch them now, and Aziraphale could feel his patience wearing thin. Rather than give Warlock the fight he obviously wanted, he rose and began walking around the room, giving his attention to the students who were following his instructions. Behind him, he heard the tinny echoes of Warlock’s music growing louder and louder by slow degrees. When the other students began to complain, Aziraphale had them move to other parts of the room. He knew from experience that confronting Warlock would only exacerbate the situation.

Just before the bell rang, Aziraphale set a note on Warlock’s desk. Warlock looked at it, crumpled it up, and tossed it at the wastebasket, but when the bell rang he remained seated. Aziraphale went to the door and closed it, then took a seat in the desk next to Warlock’s.

“Take your headphones off, please, Warlock,” Aziraphale said calmly.

“Don’t want to.”

“Warlock. Take them off  _ now _ .”

Startled, the boy looked up. Whatever he saw in Aziraphale’s face made him turn a little pale, and he snatched the headphones off his head and tossed them to the floor. There was a crack - one of the earpieces had broken.

“There,” Warlock snapped. “Happy now?”

“As a matter of fact, I am not. Would you care to explain your thought process just now? Why you thought it would be acceptable to turn up late, ignore my instructions, and disrupt my class?”

Warlock shrugged, but he looked a little less certain of himself. “Felt like it.”

“Why did you feel like it?”

Warlock glared at him in silence.

“Did something happen in one of your earlier classes?”

More silent glaring.

“At home?”

The glaring intensified. Aha.

“I asked if you would like to use your pass. You said no.”

“I don’t have to use it if I don’t want to.”

“That’s true. However, you made a series of poor decisions just now, and if you had taken the time to cool down you might have chosen differently. Circumstances being what they are, you’ll join me for a detention tomorrow.”

Eyes widening, Warlock leapt to his feet. “ _ Detention _ ? With  _ you _ ?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I would do you a serious disservice if I let you think you could behave however you like without consequence. Thirty minutes tomorrow, either before or after school.” He rose. “I’ll be contacting your uncle, of course.”

Warlock grew even paler, but he said nothing more. He stood, snatched up his headphones, and stormed out the door.

* * *

“Goddammit,” Crowley sighed. “I thought things were going well.”

“They were. They  _ are _ . He had a bad day, Crowley. It happens to the best of us. I don’t hold it against him. He’ll serve his detention tomorrow and then we’ll continue on as we were.”

“You don’t think it’ll...I dunno...make him backslide?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Anything’s possible, but...I don’t think so. I think on some level he  _ wanted _ me to hold him responsible, to punish him. Crowley...did something happen last night or this morning?”

“No. I mean, I complained about him leaving his shit all over the place, but we didn’t argue or anything. I wasn’t mad really, wasn’t a big deal. Why?”

“Hmm. You might find out if he felt the same way. He was  _ very _ dysregulated today.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Crowley rang off and rubbed one hand roughly down his face. Fuck, just when he thought they were in the clear…

He heard the door open and close, the sound of a heavy backpack hitting the floor, and then Warlock appeared in the living room. When he saw his uncle his eyes widened and he looked ready to run back out again.

“No way,” Crowley said firmly. He pointed to the couch. “Sit.”

Warlock’s shoulders slumped a little and he sank onto the couch, his eyes trained on the floor. Crowley sat on the coffee table in front of him.

“Kid, what happened today?” When his nephew gave him a Look, he clarified. “Mr. Fell called, I know what happened at school. I want to know what happened  _ here _ .”

Warlock shrugged and hunched further in on himself.

“I didn’t yell or anything did I?”

Shaking his head, Warlock inched backwards. Crowley tried to meet his gaze but Warlock was making it really difficult and... _ shit _ .

“Oh, kid. Are you...don’t cry, it’s okay.”

“I’m  _ not _ crying,” Warlock said, angrily swiping at his eyes.

“I wasn’t mad at you. Annoyed, a little, sure, cause I don’t exactly  _ like _ tripping over your backpack and nearly breaking my neck, but…”

“Stop it!  _ Stop it! _ ” Warlock shouted, leaping to his feet. “Stop being  _ nice _ to me! Everybody’s so fucking  _ nice _ and I  _ hate  _ it!”

“What...you  _ want _ me to yell at you?”

“ _ Yes! _ That’s what you’re  _ supposed _ to do when I’m bad!”

“Bad?” Crowley thought about standing up, but looming over the kid while he was in this state seemed like a bad idea. “You’re not bad, Warlock.”

“Yes I  _ am _ ! You don’t  _ know _ , you don’t know what I…”

“So tell me, kid,” Crowley said impatiently. “I promise if it’s bad I’ll get mad, okay?”

Warlock glared at him and crossed his arms. “I wanna go  _ home _ .”

If the kid had whacked him in the gut with a two-by-four it couldn’t have hurt more, and unfortunately he didn’t have enough control over his face to hide that fact.

“Oh.” He blinked hard, studying his hands. “Oh, okay. Yeah, we can...we can do that. If you want.”

When he looked up, Warlock was staring at him in shock, tears running down his cheeks. “You want me to go?”

“Course I don’t, kid. I like having you around. But if you want to go…”

“I  _ don’t _ !”

“But...you just said…”

“I  _ miss _ them.” Warlock’s voice shook. “I miss them, and I  _ shouldn’t _ . It’s not  _ fair _ . They don’t miss me, they don’t want me, they’re never nice to me. You’re nice to me and I miss  _ them _ .” He shook his head and looked away. “I don’t deserve to be here.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Crowley said. He stood and slowly approached his nephew. “Listen, kid. Warlock. Are you listening?” He waited for the yes-shrug before continuing. “Of course you miss them. You love them, and you lived with them for...how old are you again?” Warlock rolled his eyes.2 “I miss your mum sometimes. Did you know that? She’s my little sister and she was always a pain in my arse, but...she’s my sister. I love her. And maybe she doesn’t miss me ever, that doesn’t change how I feel, does it? Anyway, my point is, your feelings aren’t bad. They’re just...your  _ feelings _ , y’know? There’s no wrong way to feel. You’re not bad for missing your parents.”

There was a long pause. “Really? You’re not...mad at me? For missing them? Even though you’ve…”

“Kid. Didn’t I tell you at the beginning that all of this was your choice? I…” Crowley took a deep, steadying breath, unaccountably nervous. “I love you, and I like having you here. But I wouldn’t keep you here if you didn’t want to stay. I just want you to be happy - here, there, on the fucking moon, wherever. I’ll make it happen.”

“I  _ am  _ happy,” Warlock said, his eyes welling again. “I mean. Y’know.”

Crowley gave a watery little laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

Cautiously he reached out and grabbed Warlock’s shoulder, pulling him into a hug. (And quite suddenly he realized that he hadn’t hugged the kid since he’d arrived. Shit. Something else he’d have to change.) Warlock buried his face in his uncle’s shirt and took a few shuddering breaths. When they’d both regained their composure, they returned to their previous positions, Warlock on the couch and Crowley on the table.

“I get mad at you sometimes,” Warlock said, a little calmer despite his still-wet cheeks. “I never had to do any of this stuff at home. Put stuff away, clean the bathroom. Other people did that.”

“Well, unless I miraculously start selling about a million more plants every month than I do, that’s not changing anytime soon,” Crowley said dryly.

“I know. I just...I missed home, then I missed them. Then I felt bad about missing them.” Warlock shook his head. “Then all that stuff in Mr. Fell’s class...I guess I thought ‘if I’m gonna be bad, might as well be bad.’ Sounds crazy now.”

“Nah, not crazy.” Crowley ruffled the kid’s hair. “You owe Mr. Fell one hell of an apology though.”

“Yeah.” Warlock’s face fell. “Was he really mad?”

“He was worried about you.”

“Why is everybody around here so nice?” Warlock groaned.

“I mean, hey, if you want, I can lock you in your room for a week and take away your tablet.”

Eyes widening, Warlock jumped up from the couch. “What?”

“Bread and water for meals, let you out once a night to use the loo…”

“I...I should probably start my homework.”

“Good call.”

* * *

“Hey, Warlock! We’re going to Pepper’s to hang out. Wanna come?” Adam Young leaned against the locker next to Warlock’s. Warlock grimaced as he pulled his backpack out and began shoving books and folders inside it. “We” was the Them - Adam, Pepper Moonchild, Brian Hogge, and Jeremy Wensleydale. Lately they’d been inviting Warlock to eat lunch and walk home with them, and a few weeks ago they’d all gone to a park to hang out and then to Brian’s house to spend the night. Warlock hadn’t quite worked out why he’d been basically recruited to their group, but he wasn’t questioning it. A guy needs friends, after all. And they were all nice.

“Can’t. Detention.”

“Fell?”

“Yeah.”

“That sucks. You were kind of a jerk, though.”

“I know.”

“But detention’s only for half an hour, right? Come over after.”

“I dunno. Maybe. Uncle AJ might want me to come straight home.”

“Okay. Just text me if you’re coming and I’ll send you her address.”

Warlock looked up, his eyes widening. “I don’t...have your number.”

Adam raised his eyebrows and held out his hand. After staring at the other boy for a few seconds, Warlock hastily dug his phone out of his pocket and gave it to him, watching in disbelief as the coolest guy in his class  _ gave him his number _ . He tossed the phone back to Warlock and grinned.

“See you later. Hopefully.”

“Yeah...ho-hopefully,” Warlock said weakly.

Adam pushed himself off of the locker and walked off, and Warlock shouldered his bag and headed for Fell’s classroom, his head still spinning.

What. The.  _ Fuck? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 As a matter of fact, it was a very Crowley-esque pose. His uncle would be proud.  
2 Truly remarkable, the face of a teenager, which can express heartbreak and annoyance simultaneously.


	4. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a productive but slightly concerning conversation with the rest of Warlock's teachers, Crowley looks forward to a certain phone call, and Warlock is kind of overthinking things.

“Well, that’s all for today’s activities.” Gabriel smiled around the room. “You’ll have the rest of the afternoon to work in your departments and in your classrooms.”

While most of the other teachers rose and made to move out of the library, Aziraphale stayed where he was. Anathema Device sat next to him with a smile. “Learn a lot, did we?”

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder to where Gabriel was talking to one of the counselors. “Useful information, as always.”

“What’s this about? Has Warlock been in trouble again?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He couldn’t be certain, though, and this mini-meeting of all of Warlock’s teachers was certainly cause for worry. Finally Gabriel returned to the front of the room and smiled at the teachers assembled.

“Thanks for staying a little later,” he said. “I’ve had a few concerns brought to my attention about this particular student, and I thought a little brainstorming session might be in order.” He looked around and pointed at the FACS teacher. “Marjorie? Did you want to start?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it a concern, really,” Ms. Potts said hesitantly. “He has been  _ very _ well-behaved the last few weeks. But I’m afraid I can’t get him to participate in class.”

“Is it those damn headphones?” Shadwell asked.

“Language, Coach,” Gabriel admonished quietly.

“Oh, no, he always takes them off when I ask him to. He just doesn’t speak up much and - well, we do have a lot of group assignments.”

“Do you allow students to form their own groups?” Aziraphale asked. “Or do you assign them?”

“I form them randomly, usually.”

“He’s been getting on fairly well with Adam Young and his group of friends. Do you have any of them in class?”

“I have Brian.” Marjorie thought for a moment. “I suppose I could try to make sure that Brian’s a part of Warlock’s group.”

“I’ve found,” Anathema spoke up, “that giving him an expectation - a goal, kind of - helps. Like, I’ll stop him at the door and tell him that we’re going to talk about, I don’t know, religious imagery in  _ Jane Eyre _ , and that I’d like him to try to contribute at least once. He’ll speak up then. Sometimes it’s just a few words, but it’s something.”

Shadwell shifted in his seat and grumbled.

“Problem, Coach?” Gabriel asked.

“Why’re we giving this brat all this extra attention?” Shadwell asked. “If he won’t do what he’s told, he should be punished. That’s what we do for all the others.”

“It’s not, though, is it?” young Newton Pulsifer interrupted. He was, somehow, the technology teacher, despite the fact that he couldn’t touch a computer without making it commit digital suicide. “We make accommodations all the time.”

“Mr. Pulsifer is right,” Aziraphale said a little frostily. “All students have different needs. Warlock’s just happen to be emotional and behavioural rather than academic.”

“You’ve had problems, then, Coach?” Gabriel asked.

“Don’t have the chance. He’s never in class these days thanks to that stupid pass.”

“He still uses the pass?” Anathema asked with a little frown. “He hasn’t used it in my room for a while.”

“Same here,” Newton chimed in.

“He does seem to use it for p.e. fairly regularly,” Aziraphale admitted. “I can encourage him to try to stay in class, but...if he doesn’t feel that he can regulate his feelings in your class, Shadwell, that’s a problem.”

“The  _ problem _ is that he’s a spoiled brat who doesn’t want to do anything that’ll make him sweat. And living with that uncle of his isn’t helping. I’ve seen the guy around. The boy needs a real role model, not that…”

“Yikes...looks like we’re out of time,” Gabriel said quickly, glancing at Aziraphale’s stony face. “Aziraphale, talk to the boy about staying in class as much as possible. Shadwell, would you mind hanging out for a second?”

Grinding his teeth, Azriaphale gathered up his things and stalked for the library door.

“Aziraphale? Aziraphale!”

He stopped in the hall and turned to look at Anathema. “Yes, my dear?”

“Look - you’ve done a great job with Warlock. He’s come a long way, and I know how hard you’ve worked with him.”

“Oh.” Azriaphale smiled. “Oh, thank you, my dear. It’s  _ so  _ lovely to hear that.”

“That’s all I wanted to say, except…” she paused, looked about to make sure they were alone, and whispered, “...when the stars paint the sky and Procne her voice regains, a dove shall nest with crows.”

“I... _ what _ ? What does that mean?”

“I don’t really know.” Anathema. “Agnes says.”

“She is awfully fond of obscurity, isn’t she? And this message is meant for me?”

Anathema handed him a note card, and Aziraphale took it.

> _ Regarding the fallen angel _
> 
> _ Who stands between _
> 
> _ The sorcerer and the stream: _
> 
> _ Let not his heart be hardened _
> 
> _ Nor his hope be extinguished, _
> 
> _ For when the stars paint the sky _
> 
> _ And Procne her voice regains, _
> 
> _ the dove shall nest with crows. _

“And you’re  _ certain _ this is for me?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yup.” Anathema smiled. “See you on Monday!” With a bright smile she hurried down the hall to catch up with Newt.

* * *

A word of explanation may be in order here.

Anathema was a highly educated young woman and a dedicated and gifted teacher. She taught her pupils to parse phrases in literature, to search for hidden meanings, to question conventional interpretation, and to take nothing at face value. She had learned her pedagogy at university, as all teachers must, but her gift for interpretation was hereditary.

Family tradition held that her great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, Agnes Nutter, had been the only true prophetess in history. She had written a book, which had never sold a single copy, and which her ancestors had all studied carefully. On her authority they had invested in Apple, avoided MCI Worldcom and Enron, and otherwise benefited from various market trends and scandals for five generations. While her prophecies seemed generally concerned with the well-being and prosperity of her descendants, she had occasionally extended her words of wisdom to those closely connected with them.

Aziraphale had been skeptical at first, but he had known Anathema long enough to have seen some of those prophecies in action, and he was not a man of great skepticism in general. Some might even call him gullible. He liked to believe in things, and the case for believing Agnes Nutter’s prophecies was compelling. So when Anathema handed him the creased and smudged note-card, asserting that its words were meant for his benefit, he believed her. Of course, what exactly Agnes meant was a complete mystery to him. Well, mostly. He was fairly sure the bit about Procne was referencing a nightingale, but he couldn’t be sure. In some versions of the tale she was the swallow, after all.

He tucked the card in his coat pocket and decided to puzzle over it later. For now, he had work to do, and at least some of it was work he enjoyed. Fridays always meant a call to Warlock’s uncle.

* * *

Crowley was waiting in his study.

No. No, he was  _ sitting  _ in his study. He wasn’t waiting for anything. There was a television in the room, and it was on, and he was watching it. From his desk chair. Obviously. He had taken his phone out of his pocket and placed it on his desk because he hadn’t wanted to sit on it, not because it would be easier to answer any calls that came in.

He was most certainly not impatiently waiting for a call from a certain handsome history teacher. He was a very busy man with very important things to do, and he was not sitting about waiting for a telephone call like a schoolboy hoping to hear from his crush. He had  _ much _ more dignity and pride than that. He didn’t even really care if the phone never rang at all.

Shut up.

At 4:00pm on the dot, the phone lit up and Aziraphale’s number flashed across the screen. Crowley watched it for a few rings and then answered just before the call went to voicemail. “Crowley here.”

“Crowley, good afternoon. This is Aziraphale Fell.”

“Hullo, Aziraphale. How’s the lion taming business?”

Crowley always answered with a stupid joke, and he got much too much satisfaction out of making Aziraphale laugh.

“I believe there was an incident at the water hole earlier this week,” Aziraphale said, “but the lionesses involved seem to have recovered and are once again the very best of friends.”

“Well, sure. Can’t let a little thing like a fight ruin your relationship with your bestie.”

“So I’ve heard.” Aziraphale paused, and Crowley felt the tone of the conversation shift.

“You should know that all of Warlock’s teachers met today to discuss a few little issues that have popped up. Nothing serious, you understand. He really is doing remarkably well.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yes. I receive compliments quite frequently. I always suggest they call you themselves, but they seem to view me as a sort of liaison.”

Crowley didn’t mind. He’d  _ much _ rather hear compliments from Aziraphale, anyway.

“There is  _ one  _ point of concern that was brought to my attention. I’ll talk to him myself on Monday, of course, but as he has the class in question before he comes to me…”

“What is it?”

“Physical education. I’m afraid Warlock has been missing quite a lot of class time. He often comes to my room with his pass.”

“Well, that means he needs to be there, doesn’t it?”

“Possibly. He could also be avoiding a teacher he doesn’t like.”

Crowley’s spine stiffened. “Can you blame him? Shadwell’s a nightmare.”

“Coach Shadwell is rather more old-fashioned in his techniques, certainly, but...you know as well as I that we can’t avoid every unpleasant person in our lives. When he gets his first job he’ll have coworkers and supervisors he dislikes, and he won’t be able to avoid them forever.”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, I know, just...he hates gym.”

“And I completely sympathize with him. However, it is a requirement for graduation, and Shadwell will be within his rights to withhold credit if Warlock is never in class. Then he would just have to take it again.”

“Ugh. Fine. I’ll talk to the gremlin.”

“Thank you.” There was another pause, and Crowley knew they were about to shift into much murkier territory. This was his favourite part of the week. “How are things on your end?”

“Fine. Maybe even great, I dunno. Hard to tell with him sometimes. I do know he doesn’t currently hate everything, but that could change at any second.”

“True.”

“He painted his room a few days ago.” Crowley heard the nerves in his voice.

“Oh, that’s...that’s  _ wonderful _ .” Aziraphale’s voice had gone soft and Crowley grinned. He’d  _ known _ Aziraphale would understand.

“Ugliest fucking shade of green I’ve ever seen, but he loves it. It’s like sitting in an avocado. Honestly, you’d think a couple of months living with me would have improved his colour sense.”

“Mmm, yes. Head-to-toe black is a  _ very _ stylish look. Very Johnny Cash.”

“Wha- I- You think when I get dressed in the morning I’m going for  _ Johnny Cash _ ?”

“Aren’t you?”

“In what  _ possible way _ do I resemble Johnny Cash?”

“Well. You wear all black, for a start.”

“But- Erk- Mph- Bloody cowboy…” He trailed off when he realized Aziraphale was giggling. “Oh, very funny,” he grumbled. “You’ve got a lot of room talk, Mr. Beige-Is-Not-The-Same-As-Eggshell.”

“Well, it  _ isn’t _ . Beige has definite notes of brown, while eggshell leans more towards the white end of the spectrum.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Uncle AJ?”

“One sec.” Crowley looked up at his nephew. “What’s up, kid?”

“Can I go see a film after dinner with Adam and the others? Brian’s mom is taking us.”

“Let me finish up here and I’ll call her.”

“Why?”

“Always verify, kid. Even if you trust the source.”

Warlock rolled his eyes. “ _ Fine _ . Tell Mr. Fell I said hi.”

“Warlock says hi,” Crowley said dutifully. “I should go. I heard you’re supposed to feed gremlins occasionally.”

“You will talk to Warlock about attending p.e.?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Aziraphale.” He rang off, called Brian’s mother to confirm the kids’ plans, and then went into the kitchen. He placed a pot of water on to boil and began looking for the marinara sauce he was sure he’d bought.

“You talk to Mr. Fell a lot,” Warlock said from behind him, scaring Crowley nearly to death.

“Shit!” Crowley gasped. “I thought you were in your room.”

“Why does he call so much?”

“To let me know what’s going on with you at school.”

“So why were you talking about colours?”

“We...got a little off-track.”

Warlock looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You smile a lot when you talk to him.”

Crowley grunted and turned his back on the kid, hoping to hide his blush. “Get the spaghetti out of the cupboard, will you? What film are you guys going to see?”

Whether Warlock was really distracted or not, Crowley was simply relieved that he dropped the subject. He really wasn’t prepared to discuss why exactly he enjoyed talking to his nephew’s history teacher. At the very least, he thought, he needed to get his facial expressions under control. For Hell’s sake, he’d thought he was  _ cool _ .

* * *

Warlock picked at his fingernails on the way to the cinema - the movie theater. He still wasn’t really used to calling it that, but Adam and the others looked at him strangely whenever he spoke a little too... _ Englishy _ ...so he was trying to break the habit. It was just  _ weird _ , though. The theatre was for plays, the cinema was for films.  _ Movies _ . Whatever.

Adam had been the one to invite him along. Again. Why was it always Adam? Maybe the others didn’t like him? And just let him hang out because Adam said so? Wouldn’t be surprising. But why did Adam want him around? He pondered this while they stood in line for tickets, and while they bought snacks, and while they filed into the theater and found their seats. 

He wasn’t popular, so that couldn’t be it. Besides, Adam was one of the most popular guys in their year. He also wasn’t rich - not anymore, really. His parents had sent an allowance for the first couple of months, but after awhile they seemed to forget. Uncle AJ never mentioned it, but he knew that sometimes money got a little tight. He didn’t think he was very cool or funny, either - what was cool about a guy always stuck in his own head?

“Popcorn?”

See? Warlock hadn’t even noticed that Adam was sitting next to him, offering his bucket of popcorn to share.

“Um. Sure.” Warlock took a handful of the stuff and immediately regretted it - it had so much butter/oil/goop on it he could feel it sliding on his fingers.

Adam must have seen his expression, because he said, “Sorry about that. Brian always orders extra butter.”

He couldn’t put it back, so Warlock ate the mess, trying very hard not to gag.

“You don’t  _ have  _ to eat it.”

“Why do  _ you _ ?”

“You get used to it.”

“Don’t think I could.”

“Stick around long enough and you will.” Adam gave him a smile and Warlock wondered, once again, what the hell he was doing here.

“Are you two going to talk the  _ whole movie _ ?” Pepper asked from Warlock’s other side.

“What if we are?” Adam asked, flicking a kernel at her.

“Then you should switch places with me so I can leave when people start punching you.”

“Actually, you’re both being very disruptive now,” Wensleydale whisper-shouted over Pepper.

Adam rolled his eyes and sat back, but he kept the popcorn bucket where it was, as if daring Warlock to eat anymore. To his own surprise, he took a couple more handfuls during the movie; he just couldn’t help himself.

Especially when, every time he reached for the popcorn, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Adam smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...honestly, not much happened here, did it? I mean there's some set-up for future things but...it's mostly just talking. Lots of it. Sorry. I had to establish some things though.
> 
> \---  
FACS = Family and Consumer Sciences. It's basically Home Economics revamped for the 21st century.
> 
> Professional development meetings...uh...yeah. If you're lucky, like me, your principal takes staff suggestions and works hard to develop PD that is actually informative and useful and can be translated to the classroom. (It was his idea to have us watch Paper Tigers as a staff.) If you're not lucky? You sit in a room listening to someone who a) hasn't done your job in years or b) has NEVER done your job try to tell you how to do your job.
> 
> I have a feeling Gabriel is...NOT the first kind of administrator.
> 
> FYI, I'm imagining pretty much everyone but Aziraphale and Crowley as American since they're in an American school system but I mean...do as you will!


	5. The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock and Crowley run into Aziraphale outside of school. Later, after a second parent-teacher conference, an agreement of sorts is reached.

Every now and then, usually on Sundays, Crowley strong-armed Warlock into going to Prospect Park. Besides the fact that Crowley had recently read that too much “screen time” was horrifically unhealthy for kids, he had a soft spot for the botanical garden, and he knew Warlock hadn’t quite outgrown the zoo. He might grumble and mutter on the way there, but once they were inside the gates he quickly forgot that he was supposed to be too cool to be enraptured with polar bears, red pandas, and sea lions.

The only thing Crowley had against this particular zoo was that it didn’t have a reptile house. He’d always felt a special kinship with snakes, and he thought it was downright discriminatory of the place to exclude creatures of the scaled and slithering variety. When he mentioned this to Warlock on this particular Sunday (about a week from the end of the quarter), his nephew rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, you complain about that  _ every time _ . Why can’t you just look at the monkeys like a normal person?”

“I do look at the monkeys,” Crowley groused. “I would just like to know why snakes aren’t welcome in this establishment.”

“Maybe because they creep people out?”

“That’s just prejudice. Prejudice and ignorance.”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve said. Why don’t you just get a pet snake and get it over with?”

That was a very good question, and one to which Crowley didn't have an answer. He’d been used to say that he wasn’t good with things that breathed, but Warlock seemed to be hanging on okay. There’d been a few more little dust-ups at school - not all of which Crowley could blame on Shadwell, unfortunately - but the kid hadn’t died of starvation yet or anything, and he even started conversations of his own volition these days so… Why not? Snakes had to be easier than teenagers, right?

“Maybe I will.”

“Great. Just make sure you get one that doesn’t get any bigger than me.”

“Nope, too late. It’s a Burmese python for us.”

Warlock snorted. “Yeah, awesome idea. Get a pet that could snap you in half.”

“That’d never happen. Its cage’d be in the hall near your room. It’d get to you before it got to me.”

“How would you explain that? I swear, officer, the  _ snake ate him _ ?”

“Weirder things have happened in New York.”

Rolling his eyes, Warlock took the lead as they walked out of the zoo. Crowley was thrilled when he turned down the path to the botanical garden with only a very slightly put-upon sigh. He knew the garden wasn’t Warlock’s favourite place, but Crowley  _ loved _ it, and it was really very touching that Warlock didn’t put up more of a fight. Perhaps he liked the garden more than he let on, or perhaps, and Crowley tried not to smile too broadly at the thought, his nephew just liked spending time with him.

They were in line for tickets when Warlock stopped and went very still. “Oh, no,” he muttered.

“What?”

“It’s  _ Mr. Fell. _ ”

Crowley looked around so quickly he was surprised his neck didn’t crack. Sure enough, standing just a bit ahead in the queue was Warlock’s history teacher. Crowley gave Warlock a puzzled frown. “Wait. I thought you liked Mr. Fell.”

“I do. But he’s still a  _ teacher _ . You’re not  _ supposed _ to see teachers outside of school.” Warlock hunched down as if trying to hide behind the person in front of him. “God, I hope he doesn’t see us.”

While he knew how the kid felt, Crowley couldn’t help but hope the opposite. He hadn’t talked to Aziraphale outside of school since that night in the bar all those weeks ago - if you didn’t count their weekly telephone calls, which Crowley stubbornly did not. Those calls were technically business, even if they did sometimes stray into strange and slightly personal territory.

He heard Warlock sigh again next to him. “You wanna talk to him, don’t you. Fine. I’ll just wait here until you’re done. There are like ten people ahead of us anyway.”

Crowley had died and come back to life in the space of a second. For a horrible, horrible moment he’d thought Warlock was onto him, but he sounded like a kid whose mum had seen a pal of hers at the supermarket, and Crowley thanked everything sacred and profane that he hadn’t given anything away.

“Nah,” he said. “Be weird to just walk up while we’re all on queue. Maybe we’ll see him inside, maybe not. No big deal.”

“Whatever.” Warlock seemed to be simultaneously attempting to become invisible and acting as if he’d forgotten his teacher was there.

Crowley, meanwhile, was grateful for Warlock’s distraction, because he was having a hard time  _ not _ staring at Aziraphale. He wasn’t sure, but it was quite possible that the man had somehow got  _ more _ gorgeous since the last time he’d seen him, but that might have been because he’d never seen him in daylight. His hair looked impossibly soft and shiny in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and everything about him seemed warmer and softer and sweeter. His shirt, a light pink, made his skin glow a little, and he wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a light knit vest, so the breadth of his shoulders was even more obvious. They were very,  _ very _ nice shoulders. Nice arms, too. And  _ exquisite  _ hands.

Shit, Crowley had it  _ so bad _ .

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Aziraphale bought his ticket, turned without seeing either of them, and walked through the doors out into the garden. Both uncle and nephew let out a breath, one of disappointment and one of relief, and they prepared to enjoy their usual stroll through the gardens - Crowley heartily enjoying himself and trying not to show it, and Warlock thoroughly bored and trying not to let on.

They’d made it a little more than halfway through the garden when Warlock groaned again and tugged his hood over his face. That was all the warning Crowley had before he was once again faced with Aziraphale Fell, standing in the middle of the Cherry Esplanade and positively  _ glowing _ in the reflected brilliance of the crimson and golden leaves. Crowley swallowed and stepped forward, ignoring the shuffling hunchback his nephew had suddenly become.

“Hullo, Aziraphale,” he said. Casual, friendly. Perfect.

Aziraphale started and turned, then smiled brilliantly. “Oh! Hello, Crowley. And...Warlock?” He squinted at the hooded figure as if not quite sure who it was.

“Duh,” Warlock muttered. “Ow!” He rubbed his arm and glared at his uncle. “I mean, hi, Mr. Fell.”

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? A relief after all the rain we’ve had.”

“Yeah. ‘Snice.” Crowley cast about for something else to say. “Haven’t, uh, seen you here before.”

“I don’t come often, but I suppose I’ve been feeling rather...well. Gardens are a...recent interest of mine. You?”

“He makes us come twice a month,” Warlock droned.

“Oh! A horticulture enthusiast, are you?” Aziraphale seemed to recall something. “Ah. Of course you are. Still a florist, I suppose.”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley smirked. “What else would I be, an aardvark?”

“Uncle AJ, I’m gonna go...over there,” Warlock said, gesturing vaguely.

“Don’t go too far, kid. Stay where I can watch you get dragged off.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Warlock pulled his headphones over his ears and slouched away, probably to sit under a tree somewhere and pretend that he hated to listen to music undisturbed and surrounded by the golds and reds of autumn.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale said, sounding taken aback. “Bit of gallows humour, then?”

“We’re only nice if we have to be,” Crowley said, a little cowed by the hint of disapproval in Aziraphale’s expression. “He’s...he’s not used to people being nice. Neither am I, come to that.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked a little chagrined. “Of course, I...I’m sorry, of course you...well, we all relate to each other in different ways. I shouldn’t have…”

“No problem.” Crowley waved it away. “So...recent interest in gardens, hm? What brought that on?”

“Ah…couldn’t say, really.” Aziraphale twisted his hands in front of him and glanced away. “But I came by a few weeks ago and...well, it’s remarkable, but it seems as if a great deal has changed even in that short time. These leaves were green then.”

“Well, Mother Nature moves a bit quicker than we do,” Crowley said. “Some plants live only a few weeks - and these leaves’ve only been around since the spring. Got to make the most of their time while they’re here. Go out with a bang, as it were.”

“Hmmm.” Aziraphale looked around them critically. “I don’t know about a  _ bang _ . But certainly a very beautiful whimper.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley checked to see that Warlock had, indeed, found a large maple under which to sit, his head tilted back against the trunk while he lost himself in his music.

“You should come back in the summer,” Crowley said. “The rose garden is something else.”

“Oh?”

“Opened in 1928, some of the originals are still there.”

“Goodness,  _ really _ ?”

“Yeah. Thousands of roses, just...everywhere. I think it’s something like fourteen hundred varieties.”

They’d started walking, just sort of ambling in the general direction of the rose garden. Warlock remained under his tree, opening his eyes occasionally to be sure he could still see them.

“I didn’t know so many types of roses  _ existed _ .”

“Yeah...well, they’re the most popular flower on the planet, right? I could make a decent living off roses alone if I had a mind. There’s all kinds - wild and cultivated, purebreds and hybrids, grandiflora and tea roses and everything in between - and they’re all nice individually but put them all together, and…” Crowley waved one hand inarticulately. He looked at his companion, who was watching him with a look he couldn’t quite read.

“Well. I’ll have to come back some time.”

“June’s best. Really come into their own in June.”

“June it is.”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder and saw that Warlock was getting to his feet and trudging after them as if being led to his execution. At first he thought the kid might join them, but instead he chose a new tree closer to them and slumped against it. Crowley smirked to himself, remembering how he’d always felt when he’d had to wait for the grown-ups to finish being boring.

“I suppose you’re a bit of an expert on gardens, then,” Aziraphale said.

“Plants, sure. Gardens, not really. I mostly just like them because the plants are there,” Crowley answered. They’d entered the rose garden now, where everything was brown and still. There weren’t even any other visitors, because of course there weren’t. Who visits a rose garden in the autumn? “Hard to have a garden in the city, anyway.”

“Ah. What drew you to plants? To being a florist?”

“The florist thing? Easiest way to make money working with ‘em. But why plants?” Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. Wasn’t much fun, growing up the way we did. People always had... _ expectations _ . And there were a lot of us and they were always there, always saying things, always... _ pushing _ . The gardens were quiet though. And the plants didn’t care if I wanted to wear my hair long, or paint my nails black, or study botany instead of law, or commit a little harmless vandalism.” He heard Aziraphale scoff but let it pass. “Totally self-centered, plants. Just want to grow and reproduce, and they don’t much care who helps them do it. Easy, really, if you’re not a total idiot. Plus they’re...y’know…”

“Beautiful?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes shining.

“Yeah.”

“Goodness, you do have trouble with positive words, don’t you?”

_ Not exactly _ , Crowley didn’t say.

“Well, I think that might be the most charming explanation for becoming a florist I’ve ever heard. A bit sad of course, but the best stories are.”

“Hmph.” He kicked at the dirt. “Don’t know why Harriet thought this was a good idea,” he said, gesturing at Warlock, who was approaching them at roughly the pace of a snail crawling through honey. “Plants I can do. People? Bit more work involved.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “I think Warlock is extraordinarily fortunate to have you for an uncle,” he said carefully, his voice going all warm and soft. “I would never say that sending one’s child away is the right thing to do, but  _ if _ she was going to send him to anyone, she could not have chosen better than you.”

Crowley fought to suppress his blush, but he was a ginger and there wasn’t much he could do about it. To conceal this terribly uncool... _ thing _ ...his face was doing, he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. Warlock chose that moment to catch up with them and Crowley was incredibly grateful for the distraction.

“Hey, kid. You hungry yet?”

“Duh,” Warlock grumbled. “It’s like two o’clock. We’ve been here for  _ hours _ .”

It was 1:15, and they’d been there since noon. Crowley let it go.

“I’m going to poke around a bit more,” Aziraphale said. “Have a lovely afternoon, the both of you. See you tomorrow, Warlock.”

“Yeah, bye.”

As they made their way back through the garden, Warlock grumbled about how  _ hungry  _ and  _ bored  _ and  _ tired _ he was, and Crowley would normally have teased him, but he was still stuck in that moment when Aziraphale had praised him so lavishly and sincerely, and he barely heard the kid.

“And now you’re not even _listening_.” Warlock would never stoop to whining, but he was getting awfully close to it. “I guess I’ll just talk to _myself_ then.”

“I’m listening, I just can’t get a word in,” Crowley said, lying only a little, mostly because  _ sorry I got distracted by my gigantic crush on your teacher _ was something he couldn’t be paid enough to admit. “I don’t care where we eat, just pick a place and let’s go.”

“D’you really hate the garden that much?” he asked over lunch. Warlock stopped shoving French fries into his mouth long enough to answer.

“Nah. It’s okay. I know you like it.”

“Shouldn’t have spent so much time talking to Mr. Fell, though,” Crowley said guiltily. “I always hated it when Mum did that.”

Warlock shrugged. “Whatever. I didn’t know you guys were like,  _ friends _ , but it’s cool.”

“We’re...we’re not friends.” Crowley said weakly. That earned him an eyeroll.

“Yeah, you talked to him for like an hour because you’re total strangers. Okay.”

“Uh.”

“You’re allowed to have friends. Normal people have friends,” Warlock said very patiently. 

“I’m not normal, I’m...whatever the opposite of normal is. The good opposite.”

“So’s Mr. Fell. I mean, for a teacher.” Warlock pointed a fry at him. “Just don’t piss him off. He’s kinda scary when he’s mad.”

“I…”

“Can I get ice cream? I want ice cream.”

“Wha- Sure, kid. Ice cream it is.”

A friend. Crowley hadn’t had a friend in  _ ages _ . It sounded  _ wonderful _ . And under the circumstances, the best outcome he could hope for. He wasn’t even completely sure he hadn’t imagined Aziraphale’s interest, after all, and even if he hadn’t he wasn’t about to date Warlock’s teacher and ruin everything.

Okay. So. They’d be friends. Totally platonic. He could do that.

* * *

The end of the quarter had arrived, and with it, parent-teacher conferences. Aziraphale  _ dreaded _ conferences. He loved to teach, he loved his students, and he loved his subject. One-on-one conversations with parents, though, were the bane of his existence.

Yes, alright, with  _ one _ notable exception, but Aziraphale knew exactly what was going on there. More or less.

He knew that this was his  _ hamartia _ : that which excluded him from Teacher of the Year nominations and considerations for department chair, which would spell certain rejection should he ever apply for an administrative position or run for a seat on the school board. He loved and respected all people as a general rule, but he simply didn’t  _ like _ most adults, and he was not terribly good at hiding that fact.1

The day was set aside for scheduled meetings, and so far Aziraphale thought they had gone pretty well. There were a few flustered parents worried about the AP exams, but nothing truly unpleasant had happened. He should have known it would only be a matter of time.

The man who walked into his classroom for the penultimate conference slot looked decidedly unpleasant. His face was red, his hands were clenched in fists, and his nostrils were flaring, and his opening conversational gambit, “You’re Fell?” was not promising. Nonetheless, Aziraphale made it his policy to return courtesy for discourtesy, so he stood, smiled, and held out his hand. “I am. Mr. Hall, I take it? Hayden’s father?”

“You got that right.” Mr. Hall ignored his hand and instead advanced on him, shoving a finger in his face. “You’re the asshole failing my kid!”

“I’m afraid you’re under a misconception,” Aziraphale said calmly. “I do not  _ assign _ grades to my students. They  _ earn _ them. Hayden’s current grade is a reflection of his mastery of the coursework - or rather, his lack of it. I would like to discuss strategies to improve Hayden’s understanding of the material, as well as his organizational skills. Several of his failing grades are a result of not turning the work in at all.”

“I just wanna know how he can get off the eligibility list,” Mr. Hall said. “The homecoming game is coming up and scouts are gonna be there.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Our goals are aligned, you see. I would like Hayden off the eligibility list as well, because at least that would mean he’s doing his work. I’ve offered to meet him before or after school if he’s having trouble understanding the material…”

“Look, I don’t have time for this shit,” Mr. Hall said, “and neither does Hayden. He has practices and games and workouts to do. If he’s gonna be a star, he’s got to put in the work.”

“Well...that’s true of his schoolwork, too,” Aziraphale said. “No matter how much he impresses the scouts, if he can’t get into college he’ll have very little chance of…”

“Exactly.” Mr. Hall nodded, looking pleased. “So we just have to figure out how, uh, we can get this grade changed.”

“I…” Aziraphale stared for a moment. “I’m not going to  _ change _ Hayden’s grade, Mr. Hall. That’s up to Hayden.”

“See, I thought we were getting somewhere,” Mr. Hall said, his voice lowering. “Thought you understood.”

“I do, but…”

“If Hayden doesn’t play in the homecoming game, his future’s shot. And make no mistake, I  _ will _ blame you for that.”

“Mr. Hall, if Hayden just takes the time to…”

“Shut up.” Mr. Hall leaned over Aziraphale’s desk, and Aziraphale felt his heart begin to race. “You’re gonna change his grade, and you’re gonna stop giving him so much work. He’s gonna be a star, and no pencilneck teacher is gonna take that away from him.”

“You can’t  _ threaten _ me.” Aziraphale hated how thin and weak his voice sounded. “Principal Clark will…”

“Who’s threatening? I’m just telling you how it is.” Mr. Hall smiled an ugly smile. “Gabe and me go way back, played on the same college team. Wonder who he’s more likely to back...me or you.”

The problem was that Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure Hall was wrong. There was a certain amount of fraternal love that sprung up between athletes...and Gabriel wasn’t terribly inclined to take Aziraphale seriously under the best of circumstances. His heart racing still more, Aziraphale said,

“Mr. Hall, I’m afraid our time is up. If you would kindly…”

“Oh, no. I’m not leaving this room until you say you’re changing the grade.”

“Excuse me.”

Hall whipped around, and Aziraphale looked up, feeling weak-kneed with relief. Anthony Crowley was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and sunglasses firmly in place. 

“I’m sure I misheard,” Crowley said casually, “but it almost sounded like you were threatening Mr. Fell in here.”

“You’re not supposed to listen in on other people’s conferences,” Hall blustered.

“You weren’t exactly whispering, mate,” Crowley pointed out. “Not that it really matters. You think you’re allowed to threaten someone just because the conversation’s confidential?”

Hall turned red in the face. “I wasn’t…”

Crowley held up his phone and pressed a button. The last few moments of their conversation echoed through the room, and Hall’s face went from red to purple.

“You can’t record people without telling them!” he shouted.

“Yeah, I’m sure the front office will be worried about that, and not you threatening their teachers.” Crowley pocketed his phone again. “Just get out of here, mate. You’re cutting into my conference time anyway.”

Now speechless with anger, Hall stomped out of the room. Aziraphale took a breath and then smiled at Crowley.

“Thank you,” he said fervently. “Not that anything would have...but he was  _ very _ unhappy.”

“Yeah.” Crowley smiled tightly. “You should let Clark know, though. In case he comes back or something.”

“I will.” Aziraphale sat at his desk and motioned to the chair in front of it. “Please, have a seat.”

“Uh.” Crowley shifted on his feet. “Look, I...I don’t actually  _ need _ a conference, y’know? We talk every week.”

“Oh. Why, ah...why did you schedule an appointment, then?”

“I…” Crowley glanced around the room. “Look, I’m the last, right?”

“Yes.”

“I could...walk you out?”

Aziraphale studied his desk calendar, considering.

“It’s just...I wanna ask you something, but I don’t wanna ask it here. Okay?”

If he had not chosen to look up just then, Aziraphale would probably have declined - made some excuse about paperwork and grading that would hardly have been an excuse at all, considering that it was the end of the quarter. But he  _ did _ look up, and Crowley had removed his glasses and was regarding him with an earnest golden-brown gaze, and Aziraphale was not exactly a man of steel will.

“Yes, alright.” He rose and quickly packed his briefcase, and then the two of them were walking down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the crisp mid-October night. Crowley led them to the car park and stopped to lean against the driver’s side door of his Bentley.

“So here’s the thing,” Crowley said. His voice seemed a little less steady than usual, but perhaps Aziraphale was imagining things. “Warlock said something the other day, after we met at the garden.”

“Oh?”

“He said that - that he didn’t know we were friends.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale frowned in thought. “Yes, I can see the impression we must have given.”

“I told him we weren’t, y’know, but he said...I dunno, he just said I was allowed to have friends. And that got me thinking.” Crowley took a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. “We talk all the time, not just about the gremlin. And...I dunno. I don’t have many friends. Any friends. ‘Snice, talking to someone who isn’t fourteen. Or green and leafy.”

“It is rather,” Aziraphale smiled, his nerves settling somewhat.

“So I was just thinking maybe we could. Be friends, I mean. If you want.” Crowley hunched his shoulders a little, and suddenly the resemblance between him and his nephew was uncanny. “Drinks after work, lunches on the weekend, annoying the kid at the garden. Friends do that stuff, right?”

Aziraphale thought about the many invitations to “happy hour” he’d declined over the years. “So I’m told.”

“So how about it?”

Torn, Aziraphale studied the man in front of him. He was still the most attractive person Aziraphale had met in recent memory, which was a point strongly against his proposition, but...he was also, apparently, a kind, sensitive, lonely individual. Someone very much in need of a friend. What sort of person would Aziraphale be to reject such an overture?

“We would have to have boundaries in place,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “Any discussion of Warlock and school would have to be restricted to conferences or telephone calls. Any appearance of favouritism, and…”

“So that’s a no on getting a copy of the exam?”

Aziraphale scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“We agree, then. Friends.”

“Yes. Friends.”

He thought for a moment that they might shake on it, but Crowley merely relaxed his shoulders and pulled his hands out of his pockets. “We could start now, if you like. You’re out of work, it’s a Friday night. We could go for a drink.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I really can’t,” Aziraphale said regretfully. “End of quarter grading. But perhaps...tomorrow?”

Crowley smiled, a real, genuine sunshiny expression that warmed Aziraphale to his core, and Aziraphale told the shaky little uncertain voice inside of him -  _ this is a very bad idea, no way this ends well _ \- to hush. They would be friends, and everything would be wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 In fact, Mr. Fell’s popularity with students was a source of endless confusion for administrators and parents alike. He played no silly games, told no jokes, rarely showed videos or movies, and ran his classroom with a firm and serious hand. Yet every year his classes were the first to fill up, and he was consistently voted Most Popular Teacher in yearbook surveys. Gabriel in particular was flummoxed.  
\----
> 
> This is going to go so well, guys. So, so well. No way this backfires at all.


	6. Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock has some questions for his uncle, and Crowley and Aziraphale discover the benefits and challenges of friendship.

On Saturdays, Warlock had taken to doing some work around Crowley’s nursery. A lot of boys his age had part-time jobs, and it was no trouble to have him hang out there, misting the plants and scooping potting soil. Crowley was incredibly proud of his plants, convinced that they were the most verdant and beautiful in the city, but recently he’d been...well...rethinking his care regimen.

Before Warlock had come, the plants received plenty of water, the best fertilizer, just enough sunlight, and a healthy dose of threats and recriminations. Crowley had always thought that talking to plants to help them grow was an excellent idea, and he’d adapted it for his own purposes. No gentle cooing and fond words for him: instead he shouted and railed and scolded, dropping wilting or spotted plants in the dustbin in full view of the others.

After that first parent-teacher conference with a certain angelic history teacher, though, Crowley felt a little guilty heaping such abuse on his plants. He  _ certainly _ wouldn’t yell at them in front of Warlock any longer, and he regretted the very few times Warlock had seen him lose his temper. It would be difficult to convince the boy that he was safe if his guardian stomped around screaming at shrubberies.

Crowley hoped that  _ whispering _ threats might have the same effect; after all, whispers could be downright ominous. He was preoccupied with doing this one particularly slow Saturday afternoon when Warlock (miracle of miracles) pulled off his headphones and called his name.

“Yeah, kid?”

“I was just wondering.” Warlock stared at the ground and turned his headphones over in his hands. “Why do you live here?”

“I don’t live here, I work here.”

“No, I mean...why don’t you live in England? Grandmother’s still alive, and I think some of your aunts and uncles are still around. And your cousins.”

Crowley sighed and set his mister down. “It’s a long story, but...I don’t really get along with our lot. They’re...they had certain expectations. I was never going to meet them. So I left.”

“Like what?”

“Like...well, think about it. Barristers and judges all down the line. Your mum married an ambassador. Look at me. Was I ever going to make it in a courtroom?”

Warlock huffed a tiny laugh and shook his head.

“They handle things better when they don’t have to look at them all the time. And I don’t have to deal with the family unless absolutely, totally necessary. It’s a win-win.”

Warlock nodded slowly. “So it’s not because…” He flushed.

“Because...what?”

“Because you’re...gay?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“I mean...you are, right?”

Crowley was about to say something witty and sarcastic (I can’t even  _ think _ straight, are you kidding me?), but he remembered what Aziraphale always said: patience. Trust. Honesty.

“Not exactly. Think they’re calling it pansexual, these days. I usually go with queer - fewer syllables.”

“Oh, yeah. Pepper said something about that in Health the other day.”

“Did she?” Crowley liked Pepper. He liked that whole crowd, really, the Them, but Pepper was special. She would set the world on fire one day and then rise from the ashes to rule it with a patriarchy-smashing fist. He couldn’t  _ wait _ to watch it happen.

“Coach sent her to the office.”

“Course he did.”

“But that’s not why you moved?”

“Nah. They all cared a lot more about the fact that I was never going to be a hotshot lawyer than anything else.”

Warlock nodded and seemed to be deep in thought. “How did you know?” he asked. “About...that, I mean?”

“Don’t think I  _ knew _ exactly,” Crowley said. “ _ Felt _ it, more like. Not something you can control. Like...you know I hate pears. Don’t remember when I realized I hated pears, didn’t make a decision about it, or anything. I just kind of know. Probably one day I took a bite and thought  _ eugh not for me _ , but I don’t remember it.” He glanced at his nephew. “Let me guess. Sex ed week?”

“Yeah, and it  _ bites _ . Coach Shadwell just talks about abstinence, and anytime someone asks a question he tells us to go home and ask our parents.” Warlock threw his hands up. “Why is he  _ there _ if he’s not going to tell us anything?’

Crowley shrugged. He didn’t want to outright criticize another authority figure in Warlock’s life, but goddamn, Shadwell made it difficult.

“Is that was this is? You asking me?”

“I...guess?”

“Okay. So what’s up?”

Warlock picked at his fingernails. “How do you know if...if you like somebody? Like that? I mean...how can you tell if it’s...just friends? Or...something else?”

“Well,” Crowley sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I know what this is gonna sound like, but I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask.”

“Right.”

“It’s just...I don’t have a ton of...I’m a forty-eight-year-old florist who’s never had a serious relationship, kid. I don’t know how helpful I’ll be.”

He shrugged. “But you’ve liked people, right?”

Aziraphale’s face swam in his mind. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve liked people.”

“How did you  _ know _ ?”

“It’s like the other thing. More of a feeling thing. You get real happy talking to them. Or  _ thinking _ about talking to them. You want to do things to make them smile or laugh. Sometimes - not always, mind, and not for everyone - there are...physical things too. Like you feel a little queasy or your head gets a little light when you’re around them.”

Warlock was silent.

“Did that make any sense at all?”

“Yeah.” Warlock shrugged. “It’s more than I had, anyway.”

“So...what brought this on?” Crowley grinned. “Got your eye on someone, have you?”

“Like I’d tell  _ you _ .”

“I kinda hope you would,” Crowley said seriously. “I mean, not right away. It’s nice to keep that stuff secret for a little while. But I wouldn’t tease you about it. Not  _ much _ , anyway.”

Warlock looked at him skeptically.

“It’s just...it’s a lot to handle. You should talk to  _ someone _ , even if it’s not me. But you can talk to me. If you want. Okay?”

Warlock gave him the yes-shrug and shoved his headphones back on his ears, and Crowley counted this conversation as a win. It had certainly gone better than the “why can you drink wine but I can’t” argument from a week back. Warlock hadn’t found Crowley’s possible arrest for contributing to the delinquency of a minor a compelling enough reason, and the argument had only ended when Crowley offered to let him have a glass for the low, low price of $3000, which would probably cover the fine and some of the lawyer’s fees. He’d been subjected to three days of cold shoulder for that one.

“You got plans tonight?” Crowley asked as he locked up the shop.

“Nah. I mean, Brian said he might be on Fortnite later.” Warlock looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Thought I’d have a drink with a friend.”

“You don’t have any friends. Said so yourself.”

“I do now.”

“Who? Wait, don’t tell me. It’s Mr. Fell, right?”

“Yup. Your idea, so you can’t complain.”

“Wanna bet?” Warlock grumbled good-naturedly.

“For real, though, kid. You’re good with this?”

“Do whatever,” Warlock said, then smirked at him. “Be home by eleven.”

* * *

Friendship with Aziraphale Fell was a revelation.

Crowley’d had no idea that friendships were supposed to make you feel good about yourself. The few people he’d spent time with in his youth and young adulthood had been of the flashy young professional variety, always trying to one up each other with their cars and summer cottages and suits and watches. Promotions and courtroom victories were celebrated at upscale restaurants that left them all hungry, though no one would ever admit it. Conversations were akin to swimming with electric eels, and parties were desperately unenjoyable affairs.

Aziraphale, though. Aziraphale seemed to think the world of him. According to Aziraphale, Crowley’s hair always looked nice, and he was ever so clever, and he took such good care of Warlock and of the Bentley. Besides all that, Crowley was so generous for tipping that harried waitress at a hundred percent, and so kind for waiving sales tax on a bouquet of roses for a 50th wedding anniversary, and in a dozen other ways Crowley had learned Aziraphale believed him to be  _ good _ . It was enough to turn a man’s head.

That wasn’t to say that Crowley could do no wrong. Aziraphale had no interest in being better or richer or flashier than anyone else, and he could get a little tetchy when Crowley slipped back into bad habits, snarking about someone’s outfit or rolling his eyes at a hairstyle.

“Really, my dear,” he would say, disapproving and disappointed, and Crowley would mumble an apology.

Not that Aziraphale couldn’t be a bit of a bastard himself, but his spleen was reserved for rude, selfish, or hateful people. Once, they’d been strolling through a used bookstore - Aziraphale was positively  _ weak _ for used bookstores - when they’d overheard a customer berating the young woman at the desk.

“Look, how hard can this be?” he was snapping. “It’s a  _ book _ . It’s blue and it’s about a guy who finds out he has to save the world.”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” the young woman said patiently. “We don’t shelve books based on the colour of the cover.”

“But I told you what it’s about!”

“There are thousands of books that match that description. If you could remember even one word from the title…”

“God, does your boss know how stupid you are? I’m never shopping here again!”

“Oh, I say,” Aziraphale said quietly. He stepped up beside the man and smiled at the young woman, who looked as if she were in tears. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked.

“None of your goddamn business,” the man snapped. He turned back to the clerk. “My book. It’s blue.”

“I…”   


“Oh, I do believe you have the wrong shop,” Aziraphale said politely, and Crowley smirked as both of the other people’s eyes widened. “I believe you’re looking for the Reading Rainbow. It’s a few blocks over - that’s the shop that organises books by colour.”

The young woman blinked at him, but the man gave a rather nasty smile. “See?” he said. “Better customer service than you and he doesn’t even work here! Thanks buddy. Guess I’m taking my business elsewhere.” With a last sneer he huffed off.

The young woman (Claire, her nametag said) stared at Aziraphale as if he’d handed her the moon. “Th-thank you!”

“Not a problem, dear girl,” Aziraphale said, sliding the copy of  _ An Ideal Husband _ he’d found onto the counter and handing her a few bills. “How far do you think he’ll go before he realizes there’s no such shop?”

Giggling, Claire placed the book in a paper bag. “I loved that show when I was a kid. It got me interested in reading.”

“I’m not much for television as a rule, but anything that encourages young people to read is commendable in my book.” And the bastard actually  _ winked _ .

Crowley nearly groaned aloud, but Claire seemed charmed. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” she asked with a smile, placing his receipt in the bag.

“No, thank you, that’ll be all.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure, my dear.”

“Well...if you change your mind, you know where to find us!” Claire wiggled her fingers in farewell, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“How often does that happen?” Crowley asked when they were safely out on the sidewalk again.

“What?”

“You charming impressionable young shopkeeps?”

“Please, Crowley, I did nothing of the sort.”

“I’d lay even odds she wrote her number on that receipt.”

Narrowing his eyes, Aziraphale pulled the slip of paper out of the bag and glowered at it. Crowley laughed aloud when his friend’s face went red. “I...why would she…?”

“You were her knight in shining armour. Why wouldn’t she?”

“But I’m...and she’s…well…” Aziraphale sputtered. “I’m sorry, but isn’t it  _ obvious _ that she’s...not my  _ type _ ?”

“You can never tell these days. Maybe she thought you were just eccentric.”

“Well, I  _ am _ ! Besides, I’m old enough to be her father!”

“Eh, stepfather, maybe. Probably in her thirties.”

“Even so. I’m finished with this conversation.”

“That’s okay. I’d much rather talk about you sending that arsehole on a wild goose chase.”

“He deserved it,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I have no patience with people who are rude to those in service positions.”

Crowley knew this to be true. Aziraphale was unfailingly courteous to waitstaff, busboys, valets, clerks, and every other person whose job was to make others’ lives slightly less inconvenient. It was arguably one of his best qualities.

His worst quality was not knowing when to quit. They’d been kindly asked to leave a bar recently when Aziraphale “had words” with a patron who’d got a little over-friendly with a server, and they had been very politely escorted out of a restaurant once when Aziraphale had taken issue with certain less-than-enlightened comments a fellow diner had made about how “men” in general and Crowley specifically should dress.

“Can’t take you anywhere,” Crowley would sigh whenever something like this happened, grinning widely, not even attempting to conceal how much he revelled in this side of his friend. It was going to get him into real trouble one day, but Crowley had no doubt the show would be worth the price of admission. He hoped he would be around to see it.

* * *

Aziraphale had never much cared for the American Thanksgiving holiday. It was too fraught with historical amnesia, not-so-thinly-veiled racism, and blatant consumerism to be at all appealing to him. However, he did quite enjoy the four-day weekend granted by the public school system as it gave him a chance to catch up on his reading and relax in a way he rarely allowed himself to do.

He’d rather hoped that a friendly outing with Crowley might be on the cards, but it was only Wednesday evening and they’d have plenty of time to arrange something. With Tchaikovsky on the turntable and a tumbler of single malt Scotch at his elbow, Aziraphale settled into his favorite armchair and prepared for a delightful night in.

He was halfway through the third chapter of his book when his telephone rang. Despite the fact that the number looked unfamiliar, he answered - this late at night there might be an emergency.

“Ha! Told you he’d ansssswer!” Crowley’s voice sounded far away, and Aziraphale frowned.

“Is this...Angel?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

Aziraphale blinked. “I...my name is Aziraphale. Who might you be?”

“Max. I work at Original Gin on 5th? Look, your friend is...kinda in a bad way. He tried to call you himself but then he dropped his phone in his drink and…I don’t guess there’s any way you could come pick him up, or something? I don’t wanna kick him out and he can’t get home on his own.”

For a fraction of a second, Aziraphale was hurt that Crowley had apparently gone out without him, which was a ridiculous reaction because they were friends, not...anything else. They didn’t live in each other’s pockets. If Crowley wanted to go out on his own he was more than welcome to do so. Once that flash of feeling passed, he chose  _ worried _ over all the other emotions swirling inside him. 

“Of course. I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“.....Uh-huh. I’ll text you the address.”

Aziraphale wasted no time finding the place, which was actually rather lovely - with potted plants on every flat surface and darling little succulents on the tables, it resembled a garden. No wonder Crowley had been drawn to this place. A quick glance around the room revealed no drunken florist, but when he’d advanced a few steps into the room, he heard Crowley’s unmistakable voice.

“Angel! There you are!” Crowley waved enthusiastically from a stool at the bar, nearly toppling himself over.

Flushing, Aziraphale hurried to his side, putting one steadying hand on his shoulder to keep him upright.

“Knew you’d come,” Crowley murmured, his smile a little watery. “Told the gal, I said...call Ariz...Azra...Angel, he’ll make it alright.”

“You’re Angel, huh?”

Aziraphale looked up to see that the bartender was watching them with a wry smile on her face. “Aziraphale,” he said firmly. “It’s the name of an angel, supposedly. He doesn’t seem able to pronounce my name properly.”

“Whatever. Just...try to keep it down, okay? I’ve had him on water for an hour, but you should still get him home soon or his hangover might actually kill him.”

“An hour?” Aziraphale frowned. “He’s been here that long?”

“He’s been here for _four _ hours ,” Max said. “You didn’t notice?”

“How would I notice?”

Max frowned. “You mean you two aren’t...you’re not…” When Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in inquiry, Max shook her head. “Forget it. Sit. I’ll bring you a Coke.”

“I don’t suppose you have tea?”

She rolled her eyes, muttered something about stereotypes, and stalked to the other end of the bar. To make his tea, he presumed. He pulled out his phone to call a taxi.

Beside him, Crowley had slumped a little over the bar, staring morosely into his glass of water. “Knew this was a bad idea,” he grumbled.

“Yes, getting completely pissed on your own wasn’t your best decision,” Aziraphale agreed, stowing his phone away.

“Not that,” Crowley sighed. “The other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“Warlock.” Crowley sighed. “He’s...he’s gonna leave.”

Aziraphale felt his blood run cold. “What?”

“Gonna leave. Everyone does. Just...pfft. Never mind, don’t need you no more, fuck you very much and have a nice life.”

“We should get you home,” Aziraphale said gently. He waved for the bartender and paid the bill as Crowley sighed heavily.

“No home. Just a flat. Home’s... _ people _ , y’know, angel?”

“Well, then let’s get you to your flat. Unless Warlock is there?”

“Nah, sleepover. ‘sfine. Not that it matters. Leaving, ‘member?”

“Yes, so you said.” Aziraphale stood and wrapped one arm around Crowley, helping him rise from the stool.

“Mmm, stronger than you look,” Crowley murmured, leaning rather heavily against him. Blushing, Aziraphale adjusted his grip and began directing them to the door. It was difficult to navigate, what with Crowley’s long legs tangling themselves with his own, and his breath ruffling through Aziraphale's hair. “Smell nice, too.” Crowley took a deep breath. “Always smell so good?”

Certain he was about to die of embarrassment at any moment, Aziraphale thanked God that the taxi chose that moment to arrive. He folded Crowley into the seat, ignoring his protests and complaints, and within moments they were speeding down the street toward Crowley’s apartment. Crowley, who seemed perfectly content to go wherever Aziraphale directed him, shifted closer and closed his eyes, leaning over until his cheek rested on the top of Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale sat very still and pretended that his heart wasn’t about to spring out of his chest.

When they’d finally reached his apartment - amidst a great deal of stumbling, cursing, and hiccoughing, naturally - Crowley headed straight for his bedroom and collapsed on top of the sheets, sighing as if his soul were trying to escape his body. Aziraphale watched him for a moment, debating the propriety of the situation, and then stepped forward to at least divest him of his shoes.

“Tryin’ to get me naked, angel?” Crowley muttered into the pillow.

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale said, his cheeks burning. “Just making you comfortable.”

“Mmmph.  _ You’re _ comfortable.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. “You’re safe home. I’ll just...leave you to sleep it off, shall I?”

“You’re leaving?” Crowley lifted his head then and stared up at Aziraphale with wide, wet eyes. “Figured. Everybody leaves.”

“I’ll stay, of course, if you want me to,” Aziraphale reassured him. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair from his friend’s brow. “Of course I’ll stay, my dear.”

Crowley smiled, then, a thin watery expression that nearly broke Aziraphale’s heart, and then nestled down in the blankets and went to sleep. Aziraphale watched him for a moment, a maelstrom of emotions swirling in his heart, and then, when he was sure Crowley was asleep, he went into the living room in search of a book.

Around four o’clock Aziraphale heard stirrings in the direction of the bedroom; when he glanced up, he saw Crowley standing in the doorway, staring at him as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

“You...what are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely.

“I collected you from the bar, remember?” Aziraphale said gently. “You were in a bit of a state.”

Crowley rubbed one hand down his face and slunk into the living room. “Shit. Sorry.” He collapsed on the sofa, slinging his legs over one arm and lying flat on the cushions. “You can go now, ‘fyou like. Thanks for the rescue.”

“Would you like to talk about what had you so upset?” Aziraphale closed his book and set it aside, watching Crowley carefully.

“Mmph.”

“You said something about Warlock leaving.”

“Yeah...I dunno. He might not.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, everything’s great.  _ Really _ great. That’s the trouble.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“He’s doing great in school, right? Decent grades, fewer behavior issues - he’s even making friends. So I get an email from his mum and she’s all, ‘How’s the boy? Still a little monster?’ and I wanna strangle her for that, y’know? And I start answering her, telling her how great he is, how smart and sweet and fun and...and I just...what if she wants him back?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed.

“Yeah, like...like he’s all fixed now and she’d like her shiny new son to show off and brag about, and I just...I don’t want him to go, y’know? But then it’s like...if he  _ wants _ to go...I have to let him, don’t I? I always said it was his call.”

“Why do you assume he’ll want to go?”  _ Everybody leaves _ , he’d said. The implications broke Aziraphale’s heart.

Crowley groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “They’re his parents. And I’m just the cool uncle. He misses them, y’know?”

“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Aziraphale said carefully, “you’re making an awful lot of assumptions. You’re assuming that the Dowlings will want him to return to England and that he’ll want to go. You’re also assuming that he misses  _ them  _ more than he likes his current life with his mad uncle and his friends. Until you talk to him, you can’t be sure any of that is true.”

“I know. I’m usually more of an optimist than this,” Crowley said, “but Hattie always gets under my skin.”

“Alcohol doesn’t help matters, either.”

“Yeah.” Crowley grimaced. “Still feeling it a bit. How much of an idiot did I make of myself, anyway?”

“You’ll need a new phone, and apparently sometime last night my name became unpronounceable for you. The bartender was under the impression that my name was  _ Angel _ .”

“Oh.” Crowley’s face turned a dusky red. “Yeah, uh...sorry about that. Couldn’t think of anyone else to…”

“I didn’t mind the call in the slightest,” Aziraphale smiled reassuringly, “I was just a bit worried. Support and comfort...isn’t that what friends are for?”

“Friends. Yeah. Sure.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Crowley rolled onto his side and into a seated position. “You’re right. Thanks, angel.”

“Oh, really,” Aziraphale huffed, rising from his chair and preparing to leave. “Is that going to be a  _ thing _ now?”

“Think so, yeah. What do you expect when you ride to the rescue like that?”

“I  _ expect _ that the next time you feel the need to drown your sorrows, you’ll at least let me know so I can bring the life preserver.”

Crowley grinned at him. “You’ve got yourself a deal, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it?
> 
> Sorry for the delay - besides the fact that this chapter took me a while to write, I've had a crazy week. My sister got married this past weekend, which meant I had to travel halfway across the country to be in the wedding, which meant I had to write two days' worth of sub lesson plans. I got back at 2:30am on Monday morning and got about three hours of sleep before I had to go to work...then a board meeting...then choir practice...then another night of not much sleep and...
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy.


	7. Guardian Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holiday season is rough for a lot of people...it's not all carols, eggnog, and snogging under the mistletoe. In fact, the weeks before winter break straight up SUCK for our boys.

A lifetime of growing up in England had fully prepared Warlock for New York winter weather: wet, cold, and messy. He hadn't really been prepared for the Christmas mania, though. Hell, the Christmas sales had begun even before Thanksgiving was over, and he hadn't left the house at all on Black Friday because yikes.

He hadn’t fully worked out how his uncle felt about Christmas. Aside from asking if he wanted anything in particular, Uncle AJ hadn’t mentioned the holiday at all, and as far as Warlock could tell they didn’t have a tree or any decorations hidden away. Not that his uncle would ever buy a plastic tree, that was probably against some sort of florist’s code or something. He _ had _ started to stock poinsettias at the shop, though, along with mistletoe and holly, so he probably wasn’t completely dead set against it.

The thing was, if Uncle AJ didn’t care about the holiday, Warlock was thinking about maybe going home for the break. Maybe. He wasn’t sure yet. Christmas at the Embassy was always awesome, with a huge tree and carol singers and presents from important people. He’d sent his mom an email but he hadn’t heard back yet, and he didn’t want to bring it up until he knew it was a possibility.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to go. He had friends now, real friends who would hang out with him over break and go ice skating and have snowball fights and all-night movie nights. Maybe they’d even get to go to Times Square and watch the ball drop on New Year’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had friends who were actually fun to be around.

Anyway, none of this mattered at the moment because he hadn’t heard from his mom, and…

“Hey, kid?” Uncle AJ was calling him from the living room, so Warlock wandered out of his room to see what he wanted.

“Yeah?”

“Mail for you.”

“Really?” Warlock took the shiny gold envelope and frowned at it. “This is...it’s from the embassy.” His focus narrowed to the envelope; he wasn’t even sure if his uncle was still in the room. “Why would they…?” He ripped it open, pretty sure he already knew what was coming but it couldn’t be, it just _ couldn’t _be…

Yup. He was staring at a white card with a picture of a Christmas tree on it, the words “Happy Holidays!” scrawled across the top in blood-red script. He opened it - his hand was shaking, weird - and read the message. “We wish you a very Happy Holiday season and a peaceful and prosperous New Year. - from the Dowlings” There was even a family picture that he remembered being taken sometime in May before everything had gone to shit.

He stared at the words on the card until they began to blur.

"Kid? Warlock?” His uncle’s voice sounded as if it were coming from very far away. “Aw, fuck, kid, I’m sorry. I thought…”

“I’m going out,” Warlock said. His voice sounded weird. Maybe he was coming down with a cold.

“No, wait, come on…”

“I’m _ going. out. _” And he snatched his coat off the hook by the door and left the apartment - the door shut a little too loudly, maybe the hinges were loose - and walked down all fourteen flights of stairs before stomping out into the twilight.

* * *

He walks for a long time. Not _ hours _ , he’s not _ that _ dramatic, but a couple blocks at least. He isn’t even sure where he’s going, just that he has to be somewhere far away from that stupid card and the stupid picture and all his stupid thoughts of maybe _ mattering _ to them at all. When he looks up and realizes he’s in front of Adam’s building, he thinks about running away from there, too, but…

He can hear Uncle AJ already. He’ll tell him that _ of course _ his parents love him, they’re just shit at showing it and it isn’t Warlock’s fault and how about we go get some ice cream? (Ice cream is his uncle’s answer to a lot of things, probably because Warlock isn’t old enough to drink yet.) But Warlock doesn’t want to hear any of that. He wants to hear that adults suck and parents suck and his parents in particular are the suckiest adults in the entire world.

Without giving himself too much time to think about it, he rings the bell for the Youngs’ apartment.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Young answers, and Warlock almost runs away.

“Warlock Dowling,” he says instead. “Can I see Adam, please?”

“Of course, hon, come on up.” The door buzzes and Warlock goes up, already certain he’s done the wrong thing, but he’s a Dowling and apparently fucking up is something Dowlings are great at.

“Come in, dear!” Deirdre Young is warm and gentle and welcoming and everything his own mother has never been, and he kind of hates her right now but he can’t let on or she’ll kick him out. “Your uncle just called, he’s worried sick. I’ll call him back and let him know you’re here, okay?”

Guilt twists in Warlock’s stomach. “Yeah. Tell him I’ll be home later. I just...don’t wanna talk right now.” He can picture Uncle AJ pacing around the study, flinging his arms around like a frantic spider, calling everyone he knows to see if they’ve seen Warlock. Uncle AJ thinks he’s cool, but he’s just about the most neurotic and anxious person Warlock’s ever met.

“Warlock? What’s up?” Adam has come in the room and it’s already a little easier to breathe. “Wanna come in?”

Warlock nods and follows him back to his room, where Adam jumps up to sit cross-legged on his bed and to pet the slightly disgruntled terrier sleeping there. Dog blinks one bleary eye at Warlock and then snorts, resting his chin on his paws. Meanwhile Warlock wonders what he’s even doing here.

“Are you okay?” Adam asks after two full minutes of silence.

“Yeah. No.” He finally decides to sit at the desk chair, where he can see that Adam’s been working on panels for the graphic novel he’s sure is going to be a best-seller. (_ Adam _ is sure. Warlock’s not sold on the idea of a space pirate/detective who ends up fighting dinosaurs and cowboys on a spaceship, but he doesn’t read graphic novels so what the hell does he know.)

“You get in a fight with Crowley?”

“Not yet. Probably will when I get home though.” Warlock hunches his shoulders. “Can’t believe I ran away.”

“Yeah, walking alone at night in New York is pretty much the dumbest thing anyone can do,” Adam says without heat. “What happened?”

“I got a Christmas card. From my parents. The same one they send to senators and presidents and that one nice cat lady in Sussex who thinks our family is _ adorable _ and sends my dad fan mail.”

“Oh.” Adam is silent for a moment. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. It _ sucks _.”

“So...what are you gonna do?”

“I was thinking of going home for Christmas, but...why bother? I bet they’ve totally forgotten I’m their son.”

“Nah, you’re pretty hard to forget,” Adam says (and Warlock’s stomach does something weird because sometimes Adam just _ says shit like that _ and _ how is he supposed to handle that _?). “Maybe it was a mistake. Like, the secretary fucked up or something. He has a secretary right?”

“He has three of them,” Warlock mutters.

“See? More people to screw up.”

“Maybe. But…”

“What?”

“I emailed my mom a week ago asking if I could go home for Christmas. I haven’t heard back.”

Adam thinks about that for a minute, scratching Dog behind the ears. “Okay. So say she doesn’t email back. You’ve got choices.”

“Yeah?”

“Choice one: go anyway. Tell your uncle you wanna go and just...go.”

“I can’t do that, he’ll never let me get on the plane if he thinks Mom won’t be there to pick me up. And if you’re under a certain age the airlines make you show a letter of consent and stuff.”

“You could try to get him to go with you?”

Warlock thinks that over. “Maybe. He wouldn’t want to, but...if I made a big deal about it he’d probably give in.”

“Okay, so that’s still on the table. Choice two: keep emailing and calling her until she has to answer.”

“She ignored me for fourteen years when I was literally right in front of her face. You think she can’t ignore a few dozen phone calls?”

“Jesus, what a…”

“Don’t.” Warlock hates how small his voice is. “Please.”

“Sorry. Okay. Choice three: stay here for Christmas.”

“Stay...here?”

“I mean, not _ here _, here,” Adam says, and his cheeks are turning a little pink, which is just bizarre. “Here in New York. With your uncle and me and...and everyone. We’re having a party on Christmas Eve, I was gonna bring an invitation to school. We stay up late and play games and eat way too much candy and read stories and open one present each and...it’s fun. So I mean...that’s one of your choices.”

“Oh.” Ducking his head, Warlock studies the carpet. “Is that all of them?”

“I could probably come up with a few more, like, I dunno, packing some clothes and sleeping under a bridge in Central Park, and that’s still a choice but I don’t think it’s the one you want.”

“Nah.”

Suddenly Warlock is so, _ so _ glad he came here. Maybe he didn’t really get the ranting and cursing he’d been half hoping for, but things don’t seem as overwhelming now. Adam’s mother knocks on the door and interrupts their silence, then pokes her head inside.

“Warlock, honey, your uncle asked me to call him when you and Adam are done talking so he can come pick you up. No rush, just let me know, okay?”

They talk a little longer, he and Adam, about school and games and books. He tells Adam that his uncle and Mr. Fell are apparently friends now, but since they never ask him to come along it’s not as weird as it sounds. Adam gives him some tips for not pissing Shadwell off too much, and they agree that he’s literally the worst teacher ever. Another hour has passed before Warlock remembers that he should probably smooth things over with his uncle, and he goes out to find Mrs. Young and ask to use her phone.

* * *

Crowley had been a nervous wreck from the moment he realized that Warlock had left the flat without his phone. He’d called all of the parents he could find in his contact list, considered calling the police every other call or so, and when he finally got hold of the Youngs and found out Warlock was with them, he hung up and cursed them for having a name that put them at the end of the alphabet. After texting everyone to say that Warlock had been found and they could all return to their regularly scheduled programs, he sat in his study and waited and waited and waited for Warlock’s call. It finally came, and he and the Bentley roared off for the Youngs’ as if Warlock might disappear before he got there.

Warlock looked both sad and scared as he climbed into the passenger seat of the car, and Crowley drove silently, not sure he had a firm grip on his temper. The kid could have _ died _, for fuck’s sake. Or been kidnapped and trafficked. Or...a million other horrible things.

“I’m sorry,” Warlock said quietly when they were halfway home. “I didn’t mean to leave my phone.”

“You scared me shitless, kid,” Crowley said. His voice was a little more growly than he would have liked, but oh well.

“I know. I’m _ sorry _.”

Crowley wrenched the Bentley into its parking space and took three long, deep breaths, clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. “You can’t do that. This place isn’t...it’s not like the embassy, I don’t have Secret Service agents to send with you. It’s fucking _ dangerous _.”

“I…”

“I know. _ You’re sorry _ .” Crowley shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but...you’re grounded, kid. For a week. No leaving the flat _ at all _ except for school or work, you got me?”

“Yeah.” Warlock’s voice was very small, and Crowley turned to look at him.

“I know it felt like you had no choice, but you _ did _ . You could’ve gone to your room, or to my room, or anywhere in the damn flat. If you wanted to talk to Adam that badly you could’ve asked me to take you there. You didn’t have to _ leave _.”

Nodding, Warlock studied his hands.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s just...let’s just go inside. Talk about what made you run out.”

Apparently whatever Adam Young had said to Warlock had calmed him considerably, and Crowley was grateful (and more than a little suspicious).

“I guess I thought there was a tiny chance they might still want me around,” Warlock said with a small, sad shrug. “Obviously they don’t.”

“I thought the same thing,” Crowley confided. “I heard from your mum recently, she wanted to know how you were doing in school. I told her, but...I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For her to…”

“Want me back?” Warlock shook his head. “She doesn’t. Even if she did, I wouldn’t go. Especially not now. She’d only want me because now I’m ‘good’ or whatever. You...you’re not...like that.”

“I…” Crowley _ hated _ speaking ill of the kid’s mother. “I don’t know if that’s true, about your mum. But you’re right about me. I like having you around. I _ want _ you around. So. That’s good, then.”

“Yeah.” Warlock hesitated, then stood and gave his uncle a tight hug. “Think I’m gonna go to bed. Thanks, Uncle AJ.”

“Grounded for a week,” Crowley reminded him. “Step one toe out of doors when you’re not supposed to and I’ll chop it off.”

“Got it.”

* * *

The semester was ending, and teachers and students alike were anxiously awaiting winter break. Some were a bit on edge - the winter holidays were not pleasant for everyone, after all, but most were quite ready for a week and a half away from each other and the halls of the school. Aziraphale had worried that the season would be difficult for his favourite student, but though he’d seemed a little down recently, his grades were up, his office referrals were down, and everything seemed to indicate that the child once viewed as a Problem was really doing splendidly well.

So when Warlock stormed into Aziraphale’s room during his plan period one Tuesday a week before break, tossed his binder into a corner, curled up in one of the armchairs, and tugged his hood down over his face, Aziraphale was baffled.

“Warlock? Is everything alright?”

Warlock’s arms tightened around his knees and he began to shake.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said soothingly, “won’t you tell me what’s happened?”

Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall and another boy burst into the room. “Mr. Fell, we can’t find…Oh. He’s here, good.”

Aziraphale looked up at the newcomer. “What happened, Adam?”

Adam looked uncomfortable. “Well...we were in gym, Mr. Fell. And...I mean…”

“Did someone hurt him? Did he hurt someone else?”

“No!” Adam looked mildly outraged. “It wasn’t...it wasn’t any of the kids.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. “Oh, dear. Please stay and tell me what happened. I’ll write a pass for your teacher. I promise you won’t get in trouble for telling me.”

Pursing his lips, Adam walked further into the room and lowered his voice. “It was Coach Shadwell...”

* * *

Coach wasn’t feeling well today so he gave us a free day, which basically means we can do anything we want as long as we’re doing something.

_ “Come on, Warlock, you can play with us!” Brian called from across the gym, where some of the kids had set up a game of touch football. _

_ “That’s okay,” Warlock said, “I don’t like football.” _

We all know that, he’s always talking about how ‘American football isn’t real football’ and stuff, and he’s always going on about how we should pay more attention to the women’s soccer team because they actually win stuff. We don’t mind, obviously. People like different things. But Coach...

_ “Get your butt over there and run a few plays, Dowling,” Shadwell growled. “You’re not gonna sit in my gym and listen to stupid emo music. I swear, England ruins boys. Makes you all lazy pussies.” _

Uh...yeah, those were his exact words, Mr. Fell. Sorry, I didn’t want to…okay.

_ Warlock stood stock still, staring at his teacher, his face chalk-white. After a long pause, he said calmly, “Coach, I’d like to use my pass to go to Mr. Fell’s room.” _

_ “That stupid pass again?” Shadwell scoffed. “No way.” _

_ “Please, Coach,” Warlock said stiffly. “I really need to go calm down.” _

_ “Oh for God’s sake, hand it over.” _

So he did, and then Coach...he ripped it up, Mr. Fell. And then Warlock was yelling, and calling Coach an old drunk, and Coach was yelling back…

_ “...you’ll stay right here and deal with things like a man. No real man needs a crybaby pass!” _

And that’s when Warlock ran away. He just ran out of the gym with Shadwell yelling after him and…I was afraid he ran out of the school. I’m glad he came here.

* * *

The intercom interrupted the heavy silence that followed. “_ Warlock Dowling, please report to the office. Warlock Dowling to the office.” _ Still curled in the chair, Warlock whimpered.

“Stay right there, my boy.” When the end-of-hour bell rang, Aziraphale looked up at Adam. “Thank you for telling me, son. Go on to your next class. I’ll take it from here.”

Aziraphale then made three phone calls. The first he made to the office to inform them that both he and Warlock would be in the office soon, and would they kindly ensure that Coach Shadwell was there as well? The second he made to Anathema next door, asking her to step in during her plan period and oversee his students while he dealt with a pressing matter. The third was by far the most difficult.

“Crowley here.”

“Hello, Crowley. This is Aziraphale Fell. I know this is extremely short notice, but could you possibly come to the school in the next ten minutes or so?”

“Why? What’s happened?” Crowley’s voice went very high-pitched. “Is the kid okay? Is he hurt?”

“He’s...he hasn’t been injured, but there’s been an incident. He’ll need you here.”

“Yeah, shit, ‘course. I’ll be there soon as I can.”

When he’d rung off, Aziraphale approached the boy-shaped ball in the corner. “Warlock,” Aziraphale said softly, “will you look at me please?”

The boy heaved a great breath and then peeked out over his knees.

“We are going to the office now. I _ promise _ you, Warlock, that if I can prevent any punishment for you I will. Will you come with me please?” Warlock hesitated. “If it all gets to be too much, I’ll send you out, no matter what anyone says. Alright?”

Shakily Warlock nodded and then slowly unfolded from the chair. As they walked out the door, Aziraphale stopped to thank Anathema for stepping in, and the young teacher bent down to whisper words of encouragement to their mutual student. She’d heard, of course. News travels fast in a high school.

By the time they entered the conference room in the office, Shadwell was spitting nails and Gabriel looked as if he’d been carved from marble.

“That kid called me a drunk and ran out of my class without permission!” Shadwell said, pointing an ominous finger at Warlock. The boy ducked behind Aziraphale like a cub behind its mother. “That’s grounds for suspension!”

“He _ had _ permission,” Aziraphale said coldly. “That cool-down pass has the authority of the office behind it. When he asks to use it, you are meant to let him. That’s the whole point.”

“He can’t use it to get out of trouble, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “I was afraid this would happen. We can’t have a student disrespect a teacher and then use a get-out-of-jail-free card. It isn’t equitable.”

“That’s not what happened!” Aziraphale said, aghast. He turned to Shadwell. “Are you really trying to blame a student for your behaviour?”

“Aziraphale, listen…”

“Coach Shadwell, will you kindly tell Principal Clark what _ led _ to Warlock calling you an old drunk?”

“What the hell does that matter?” Shadwell demanded, turning red in the face. “He’s a disrespectful little shit. I’ve said it from the start, and this just proves it.”

“Gabriel, how often have you seen Warlock in this office since he started using his pass?”

Gabriel sighed. “It was only a matter of time, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale felt himself growing cold. “What the _ hell _ do you mean by that? No.” He held up a hand. “Warlock, dear boy,” he said, turning to his student, “please go and sit outside the office.”

“He’ll run off again,” Shadwell growled as the boy walked out the door.

“He will _ not _ .” Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height and clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, Shadwell. If you won’t tell the truth about what happened today, I _ will _.”

* * *

Crowley tore into the car park as if the hounds of hell were pursuing him. He almost forgot the keys in the ignition, he was in such a hurry. Slamming through the doors, he was at first relieved to see Warlock sitting outside the office, alive and whole, but his breath was knocked out of him by the expression on his nephew’s face.

“I’m sorry, Uncle AJ,” Warlock said, jumping to his feet and throwing his arms around him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t _ mean _ to, I…”

“Where’s Mr. Fell?”

“Inside. He told me to wait out here.”

“Great. Brilliant. I’ll be back.”

The secretary let him in and gestured to the closed door of the conference room, her eyes wide, and he didn’t blame her. He could hear Aziraphale’s voice from out here.

“...you - you - _ disgusting _ old fossil!”

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel sounded alarmed.

“Are you _ defending _ this behaviour, Gabriel? He called a fourteen-year-old boy in his care a _ pussy _ and a _ crybaby _ and has the utter _ gall _ to complain of disrespectful language?”

“All the same, the boy should have…”

“Warlock. Call him by his name.”

“Warlock should have…”

“He did _ exactly _ what we told him to do. What he _ ought _ to do. He asked for the opportunity to cool down and regain control of his feelings. And for that he was berated and ridiculed! How...how _ dare _ you, both of you! Do you have _ any _ idea how badly you’ve damaged the trust I’ve built with him? He _ trusted _ me, you, all of us, to keep him safe, to help him grow, and you’ve torn him down!”

“What the bleeding fuck is going on here?” Crowley growled. “Did I hear that right? This fucker called my kid names and tried to punish him for doing what he was told?”

“Language, please!” yelped Gabriel.

“Oh, I’ve just got fucking started with the fucking language.” He advanced on Shadwell and had the pleasure of seeing him scurry backwards. “You wanna tell me to my face what you called my kid, you miserable little fuck?” Shadwell whimpered and glanced at his boss.

“Everyone calm down,” Gabriel said desperately. “Mr. Crowley, _ please _. Aziraphale…”

“You know, Shadwell,” Aziraphale said, his voice suddenly so cold it could freeze hellfire, “something’s just occurred to me. My sources say you weren’t feeling well today. You don’t _ look _ ill. What have you got? Stomach bug? Nasty cough?”

Shadwell turned pale. “Er…”

“Or perhaps a touch of the Irish flu?”

When Shadwell remained tellingly silent, Gabriel groaned. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Shadwell, go home. Now. And stay there. We’ll get a sub for the rest of the week. You’re suspended until further notice.”

“But…”

“Get. Out.”

Shadwell sent one last terrified glance at Aziraphale and Crowley and scurried to the door.

“One word to my kid...” Crowley snarled. Shadwell squeaked and disappeared.

“Okay,” Gabriel said. “Now that that’s taken care of…”

“_ Nothing _ is taken care of,” Crowley said. “What the hell kind of people do you let teach at this school? How do you know that arsehole hasn’t said those things to other kids?”

“I’ll be investigating that,” Gabriel said. “As for you Aziraphale...your behaviour was far from acceptable.”

Crowley glanced sidelong at Aziraphale, his heart pounding. Aziraphale _ couldn’t _get sacked, not when he was the only adult in the whole damned school who seemed to give a fuck about Warlock as more than a number on the roster.

Aziraphale looked stonily back at the principal, his lips a tight line. “I _ will not _ stand for such abuse of students, Gabriel,” he said sternly. “I am an _ educator _. Shadwell is, and has always been, a bigoted, uncouth stain on the profession. If you see fit to reinstate him after your investigation, I will have no choice but to take the matter up with the board.”

“You could jeopardize your own position, Aziraphale.”

“I consider the welfare of my students well worth that risk.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you anything more?”

If Crowley were slightly less angry his jaw would have dropped. As it was, his stomach picked up the slack and his heart rate spiked again, but not from rage. From...oh, holyshitthiswasn’thappening...

“The boy…”

“_ Warlock _.”

Yeah. It was. Fuck.

“Will Warlock be able to return to class?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Crowley snapped. “I’m taking him home as soon as I’ve filed a complaint.”

“Ah.” Gabriel winced. “Yes. Of course. One of the counselors can help you with that.”

“And Warlock will, of course, be reissued his pass.” Aziraphale’s tone brooked no refusal.

Yup. Definitely happening. No doubt about it.

“Obviously.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale gave Gabriel a sunny smile that looked completely genuine. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe Ms. Device has been tormented long enough.”

“And I’ve got that report to file,” Crowley said.

“I’ll show you to the counselor’s office on my way.” Aziraphale held the door open, and they both walked out of the conference room. They did not proceed to the counselor’s office, but to the bench in the hall where Warlock was still sitting, his headphones in place and his face considerably calmer. He looked up as they approached and scrambled to his feet.

“I’m not...I’m not expelled, am I?”

“Expelled! Good heavens, no,” Aziraphale said with a reassuring smile. “You won’t even serve a detention. I explained everything to Principal Clark, and he discovered that Mr. Shadwell really was feeling quite unwell. He’s gone home for the rest of the week. In light of the circumstances, and the fact that you tried to do the right thing, Principal Clark agreed that punishment was quite uncalled-for.”

To both men’s astonishment, Warlock burst into tears and threw his arms around Aziraphale. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley and then cautiously placed one hand on the back of the boy’s head. “There, there, dear boy,” he said softly. “When Adam told me how calm and polite you were in the face of such disrespect, I was so very,_ very _ proud.”

“Called him a drunk,” Warlock murmured, his voice muffled by Aziraphale’s jumper.

Aziraphale chuckled. “I heard. We all speak uncomfortable truths from time to time.”

Shit. Shitshitshit this had to stop or Crowley was going to make an absolute _ idiot _ out of himself. “Right, well, we’d better go file that report, and then we’re going to eat quite extraordinary amounts of ice cream.” Warlock gave him a watery smile as he backed away from Aziraphale. “And, uh,” Crowley turned to the other man against his better judgment - he had a feeling he wasn’t completely in control of his face. “Thanks. You were like a real guardian angel in there.”

“Think nothing of it,” Aziraphale said gently. “Warlock, I hope to see you in class tomorrow. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” With a last blinding smile he was off.

“You know what, Uncle AJ?” Warlock said as they re-entered the office and headed for the counselors’ offices. “Mr. Fell is the coolest teacher in the _ world _.”

Crowley grinned at him. “No argument here, kid.”

* * *

When Warlock was finally shut away in his room, Crowley collapsed on the couch and groan-screamed into the cushions, because apparently spending a couple of months with an angsty teenager brought out his inner drama queen. He rolled over, feet on the back of the sofa and his head hanging towards the floor.

_ Why? _

If he closed his eyes, he could still see Aziraphale standing in the office, radiating righteous fury like an avenging angel, his back straight and his eyes blazing. He could hear his voice - resonant and icy, firm and resolute, brooking no argument, accepting no excuses. He could _ feel _…

Developing a crush on Aziraphale was bad enough but manageable; it was a bit of misplaced lust and that could be handled. But this? He didn’t think Warlock would take it very well if he found out that his uncle had fallen arse over teakettle in love with his teacher.

But honestly, how was he supposed to help it? He couldn’t possibly be expected to resist the charms of a gorgeous, intelligent, passionate, tenderhearted man who had no qualms about destroying a coworker’s career in the name of justice. A man who would put his own job on the line for the sake of what was right. A man who would accept no compromise, take no prisoners, in pursuit of his cause.

A man whose smile could give the sun pointers and whose eyes could out-twinkle the stars, and who was so far out of reach he might as well be in a different galaxy.

Oh, Crowley was so completely, royally _ fucked _.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of oof here, but I mean...I had to do it. I've had the office scene and the realization scene written for WEEKS...like, this was originally chapter 2. But then I looked a little closer and thought, nah, needs more buildup.
> 
> Don't know how I haven't mentioned it yet, but I'm smartgirlsaremean on tumblr, too. You can come talk to me over there, if you want.


	8. Happiness and Cheer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas time is here. Gifts are exchanged, questions are asked, and Feelings abound.

“You good, kid?”

“Yeah.” Warlock shifted the box wrapped in cheerful red and silver paper in his hands and rang the bell.

“Merry Christmas and come on up!” trilled Mrs. Young as the door buzzed. Warlock and Crowley rolled their eyes and obeyed.

“Chipper, that one,” Crowley observed.

“Maybe she already got into the eggnog.”

“Or the cocoa is spiked.”

“Or there’s way too much mistletoe around.”

“Okay, we’re being right Scrooges now. Christmas cheer mode, activate.”

Warlock snorted. “You’re  _ such _ a nerd.”

The apartment door opened before Crowley could respond with proper outrage, and he had to contort his expression into one vaguely resembling happiness so he wouldn’t scare Adam, who beamed at them.

“It’s Warlock and Crowley!” he called to the room at large, which responded with far more enthusiasm than either of the newcomers felt necessary.

“Hap-Merry Christmas,” Warlock said more quietly. “You said there was a gift exchange…”

“Oh, yeah.” Adam took the box, still smiling widely. “Come on, everybody’s already here.” With his free hand he grabbed Warlock’s arm and steered him through the room. Crowley followed at a more sedate pace, exchanging nods and waves with the adults in the room.

“Crowley!” Deirdre Young had apparently gifted her son with her smile. “I can’t believe we finally got you to a party! I guess Warlock’s the key, isn’t he?”

Shrugging, Crowley picked up a glass of...something...from a tray on the table. “That and work holidays. Tough to take days off when you run the place.”

“A single parent  _ and _ an entrepreneur,” she said. “You remind me of someone...you’ve met Serena, right?”

“Er…”

Deirdre grasped his arm - she and her son also shared a strong grip - and directed him to a corner and Serena, who was small and black-eyed and lovely and absolutely flummoxed at their sudden appearance. “Crowley,” she said. “Good to see you.”

“Oh, you  _ have _ met!” Deirdre said. “Excellent! I’ll let you catch up!” And she was gone in the blink of an eye.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Serena, with whom he was obviously acquainted, since she was Pepper’s mum and all. “Well, that was about as subtle as a mallet to the head,” he said.

“No kidding.” Serena chewed thoughtfully on a nacho. “What did she expect, for us to just start making out?”

“Keep a sharp eye out for mistletoe. If this is how she’s  _ started _ , I can’t imagine what else she has up her sleeve.”

“If she tries to make us play Spin the Bottle, I’m burning this place to the ground.”

“I’ve got matches in the car.”

“I mean...no offense. You’re a good-looking guy and you’re probably not a creep. I’m just very definitely  _ not _ on the market. But you knew that.”

He did know. Neither Serena nor Pepper was in any way shy about voicing opinions on the patriarchy, binary gender norms, internalized misogyny, and about a billion other things.

“Maybe if we stand very still she’ll forget we’re here,” Crowley muttered.

Serena snorted and touched her glass to his in a toast. “To standing awkwardly in corners at parties.”

Crowley grinned. “Cheers.”

* * *

“Never have I ever...lived in another country!” Brian said triumphantly.

Warlock rolled his eyes and unwrapped one of his candies. “I kinda feel like that was targeting me.”

Brian shrugged and grinned, dodging the wrapper Warlock tossed at him. “Lucky guess.”

“Yeah, right. Never have I ever looked right at the sun during an eclipse.”

Grumbling, Brian shoved a chocolate in his mouth. “It’s not like I went  _ blind _ .”

“Actually, that was pretty dangerous,” Wensleydale piped up.

“I survived, didn’t I?”

“That’s stupid,” Pepper said, her eyes snapping. “People  _ survive _ dangerous things every day. That doesn’t make them not dangerous. If you jumped out of a plane without a parachute and survived, it’s still not something you should do again.”

“I’m getting a Coke,” Adam announced, standing. “Anyone else want anything?”

“Coke!” “Water!” “Gin and tonic!”

“Very funny, Brian. Warlock? Could you maybe give me a hand?”

“Sure.”

They walked through the living room to get to the kitchen, and Warlock saw his uncle standing in a corner with Pepper’s mom and a few other people. They were talking and Uncle AJ didn’t exactly look like he was having fun, but at least he hadn’t scared anyone off yet. Adam grabbed a tray and started putting bottles of soda and water on it.

“Hey,” Adam said suddenly, “I was wondering. Wanna go ice skating next week during break?”

“Sure,” Warlock shrugged. “Whose turn is it to take us?”

“Huh?”

“Brian’s mom, maybe? I think Wensley’s dad took us last.”

“Uh…” Adam rearranged the bottles on the tray. “My mom can do it.”

“You sure? Her car’s awful small. Will we all fit?”

Adam’s ears were turning red, which threw Warlock for a loop. “I, uh...I haven’t asked anyone else.”

Warlock was pretty sure his brain had just stopped working. “Um.”

“I was thinking it could just be us. If you wanted. But if you don’t, I mean, that’s cool, we can…”

“No!” Warlock regretted that word immediately. Adam’s face was seriously red now and he looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole. “I - I mean, that’s fine. It can...it can be...just us.”

His face was still glowing, but Adam managed a small, shy smile that was blowing Warlock’s mind because  _ Adam Young _ had just  _ asked him out _ and was apparently  _ nervous about it _ and  _ how was this his life _ ? “Cool. I’ll talk to Mom and text you details.”

“Okay.” 

There was no way this was actually happening, was there? He knew  _ he _ had a crush - that’d been made ridiculously clear over the last month or so, what with the whole “running away from home and straight to Adam” thing - but Adam  _ liking him back _ ? How?  _ Why _ ?

His thoughts were interrupted by Adam pushing the tray of drinks into his hands and then picking up a bowl full of snack mix and another of reindeer poop. They walked back through the living room, and somehow, despite Warlock’s world being completely upended just a few seconds ago, everything looked exactly the same. In Adam’s room, the Never Have I Ever game had somehow devolved into an arm-wrestling match between Pepper and Brian with Wensleydale fretting next to them. Adam handed out the drinks and the party continued, but Warlock was stuck on autopilot and barely registered anything beyond how often Adam looked at him, or smiled at him, or existed in his general vicinity.

The gift exchange was kind of entertaining at least: Uncle AJ had ended up with a stupid white mug with wings on it, and Warlock got, of all things, an actual white elephant figurine, which had most of the tipsy adults roaring with laughter. Warlock didn’t mind. There’d been a lot of gifts that were way dumber than his, and at least the elephant was kind of cute.

By mutual agreement, Warlock and Crowley were the first to leave, and Adam walked them to the door.

“I’ll text you about the thing,” Adam said, glancing nervously at Crowley.

“Sure,” Warlock said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” Adam looked like maybe he wanted to say something else, but with another anxious look at Crowley he ducked back inside and shut the door. Crowley raised his eyebrows at Warlock.

“Did I grow snake eyes or something when I wasn’t looking?”

Warlock shrugged. “You don’t look any weirder than usual.”

“Ouch. So much for peace and goodwill toward men.” They headed down the stairs. “What thing?”

“Huh?”

“What thing is Adam texting you about?”

“Oh.” Warlock hoped his face wasn’t getting red. “Just...a thing we might go do over break.”

They were at the Bentley, and if Warlock had hoped his uncle would drop the subject once they were on the road, he was disappointed.

“So. The next week thing. This thing would be…”

“Ice skating.”

“Erk. Better you than me. Don’t know about you, but I’m  _ shit _ on skates. Who’s driving?”

“Mrs. Young.”

“Really?” Uncle AJ frowned. “Small car to fit the five of you.”

“It’s not the five of us,” Warlock said, hoping his voice wasn’t as squeaky as he thought it was. “It’s...just us. Him. And me. He and...and I?”

“Oh.”

Warlock refused to look over. He was pretty sure Uncle AJ was either grinning or scowling, and whichever it was he didn’t want to deal with it right now. He was still figuring out how to deal with his  _ own _ feelings.

“So. Are you…”

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” Warlock snapped.

“Right. Sorry.”

“How do you know? If it’s…”

“A date?” Uncle AJ sighed. “I’m shit at this stuff, remember? I don’t know. I guess you’ll just have to ask.”

“ _ Great _ .”

“I mean, you could do things the old-fashioned way.”

“What’s the old-fashioned way?”

“Y’know...those notes with the checkboxes?”

“Yeah, I’d rather light my hair on fire.”

“Look, kid.” The Bentley pulled into its parking spot. “You’ve done pretty well so far. Just go with your gut. Did it seem like he was asking you on a date to you?”

Warlock thought back to the kitchen, to Adam’s red ears and stammering, to the way he’d looked when he thought Warlock was turning him down. “Yeah. It did.”

“There ya go.” His uncle grinned at him. “Congratulations, kid. Your first date.”

“Yeah.” Warlock tried to decide if he felt more excited or nauseated. He thought maybe excitement might be winning.

Once they’d said their goodnights, Warlock flopped on his bed and set his little white elephant on his nightstand. This had been the strangest Christmas Eve ever, but he was suddenly  _ super  _ glad he was here and not in England listening to a brass quintet play Christmas carols and watching his parents avoid the mistletoe like it was infested with spiders. He had his uncle, and his friends, and even a maybe-possibly-at-some-point-in-the-future boyfriend, and that was a hell of a lot more than he’d had this time last year.

For the first time in forever, Warlock Dowling felt completely and utterly content. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

Aziraphale’s fingers drummed anxiously on the table, his eyes darting to the door of the little cafe every few minutes. Beside his mug sat the small box he’d carefully wrapped the night before, reassuring himself over and over that friends certainly exchanged Christmas gifts. He wondered if they also fretted near constantly about whether the gift would be welcome, and whether their friends would even want to see them over the holidays.

He rather suspected not.

The truth was, that Aziraphale was a terrible liar, and as such he tried to avoid the practice, even with himself. There was no denying that his feelings for Crowley had taken a rather more serious turn in recent weeks: specifically, since that unfortunate incident involving Coach Shadwell. 

Rumours of the Shadwell/Warlock showdown had spread like wildfire, and he’d spent the afternoon politely refusing to answer any questions and assuring everyone that Warlock had only gone home with a headache and would return the next day. As for the Coach, the party line was that he’d gone home with a nasty stomach bug and would be out for some time. He was fairly sure no one believed him, but he kept repeating the same information until they stopped asking. There were much more exciting stories being told in the halls anyway: Shadwell getting the boy in a headlock, Warlock promising to have the coach killed by his uncle’s agents 1, things like that.

Since that awful day, there was a certain image that would not leave his mind: Crowley storming through the conference room door, snarling and growling as he backed Shadwell into a corner. It had all been very...ah... _ compelling _ , but even so none of that had thrilled Aziraphale as much as two small words that Crowley had let slip unconsciously.

_ My kid _ .

Aziraphale had known for months that Crowley was special, but to actually bear witness to the fierce, protective love he bore his nephew - to see the devastating beauty of that devotion - to hear him claim the boy as his own in a voice that left no room for argument or correction…

Well, how could Aziraphale do anything but fall at last, wholly and irrevocably?

Admittedly, it had probably only been a matter of time. Friendship with Anthony Crowley had felt alarmingly like romance from the beginning, despite how very careful they were to choose activities that could not possibly be considered “dates” unless one were feeling generous. A willing heart will find encouragement in even the most mundane of gestures, though, and Aziraphale’s heart was more than willing - it was eager, desperate even, to read  _ intent _ in every look and gesture, every smile and laugh. It had been so very long since he had felt anything like this.

A Christmas gift had probably not been his wisest idea, then, all things considered, but as long as he didn’t otherwise act on these wretched, wonderful, fluttery  _ feelings _ , perhaps their friendship could continue unchanged. He’d briefly considered including a gift for Warlock, but that approached a little too closely to favouritism for his comfort. He would just have to make sure Crowley passed along his Christmas greetings.

The bell above the shop door rang and Aziraphale looked up, his breath catching a little at the sight of Crowley sauntering in, the sunlight glinting in his hair and making it glow like flames. He was, as usual, dressed head-to-toe in black, with one notable exception.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said. “You look very festive.”

Crowley snorted and plucked at the red, green, and white monstrosity around his neck. “Thanks...present from Warlock.”

“I see. It’s very fetching.”

“Shut up.” Crowley leaned back in his chair and tried to look sour, but Aziraphale could see the twitch of his lips that meant he was fighting a smile. “You look pretty festive, yourself.”

Unnerved, Aziraphale touched the bowtie he’d chosen with special care - still tartan, but with threads of green and red and gold rather than his usual cream and blue. “Ah. Thank you.”

“So. I wasn’t sure if we were exchanging presents or not,” Crowley said after a moment, “but I, uh...I’ve got something for you.”

Aziraphale’s heart did a strange little tapdance. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Mind you, it’s nothing much. And full disclosure, I actually got part of it at a white elephant exchange on Christmas Eve, but...it made me think of you, so…”

If his heart beat any faster, Aziraphale was sure he would faint. Crowley apparently took his silence to mean consent, because he held out a small gift bag Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before. 2 Smiling, Aziraphale took it and slid his own package across the table. “I, er, have something for you as well.”

Was it Aziraphale’s imagination, or were Crowley’s cheeks turning a bit red? “Oh. You, uh, didn’t have to…”

“Well, obviously. I  _ wanted _ to,” Aziraphale gave a small laugh. “That’s what gifts  _ are _ .”

“Right. Okay.” Crowley took the little package and turned it over in his hands. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You don’t even know what it is. You might hate it.”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s from you, of course I’ll l-like it.”

Aziraphale felt his face grow warm and he deliberately kept his eyes on the bag Crowley had handed him. “Well, then. I suppose…” Before he could make things even more awkward, he determinedly thrust his hand into the bag and brought out a mug.

It was a silly little thing, white with wings in place of the handle, and Aziraphale  _ loved _ it. Tucked inside the mug was a canister containing a variety of his favourite tea blends, and when Aziraphale peeked in the bag again, he found a small envelope that contained two tickets to  _ The Phantom of the Opera _ .

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “How perfectly lovely. Thank you, Crowley.”

“Thought about one of the other plays, but I knew that one would be a sure hit,” Crowley said. “If you’d rather see  _ Come From Away _ or something I can…”

“Don’t be silly.” Aziraphale tucked the tickets and the canister of tea back into the bag and smiled at his friend. “I adore  _ Phantom _ . You chose perfectly, my dear. So very thoughtful. Thank you.”

The colour heightened on Crowley’s cheeks. “Ngk. Erm. You’re, uh. You’re welcome.”

“Your turn, then,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to the box in Crowley’s hands. Crowley looked at it as if he’d forgotten it was there, then began peeling the paper off. Aziraphale took a moment to admire the mug, which was really quite a pretty thing, made more so by the fact that Crowley had received it and apparently immediately thought of  _ him _ .

“I, uh. Wow.”

Looking up, Aziraphale saw that Crowley had opened the box and was now staring at his gift: a pair of silver cufflinks in the shape of loosely coiled snakes. They were finely crafted, with tiny scales etched into their bodies and red gemstones set in their eyes so that they winked in the sun. Crowley pulled one from the box and studied it, his face inscrutable, and Aziraphale - not for the first time in their friendship - wished those damned sunglasses would disappear.

“These are...incredible. Thank you.”

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale clutched his mug a little tighter. “I know you don’t wear suits often, but you do sometimes work weddings and funerals and go to the theatre and...if you think you’ll actually get some use out of them…”

“Angel. They’re perfect.” Crowley set the cufflink back in its box and - thank all the saints and angels - removed his glasses to fix Aziraphale with a warm, grateful gaze. “I mean it. Thanks.”

Helpless before those lovely eyes, Aziraphale ceased his fretting and smiled back, relaxing his grip on the mug. The silence that stretched between them wasn’t uncomfortable, not by a long shot, but it was certainly  _ charged _ , at least on Aziraphale’s end, with words he didn’t dare give voice. He allowed himself to sit in this moment, though, in which he and Crowley knew and appreciated each other well enough to give and receive gifts that were both thoughtful and useful. When he felt his mind going a bit too fuzzy and his expression growing just a little too fond, he took a breath and grasped the conversational reins.

“So.  _ You _ went to a Christmas party that included a white elephant gift exchange? However were you talked into that?”

“How do you think?” Crowley leaned back in his chair, fingering his scarf once again. “It was at the Youngs’.”

“Ah. I think I recall Adam handing out a few invitations at school.”

“Yeah. It was…y’know. The kid had fun. Maybe a bit too much.” Crowley suddenly looked mortified and turned very red.

“What do you mean, too much?” This was skirting the lines of acceptable conversation, Aziraphale knew, but he’d always been a bit too curious and concerned for his own good.

“I...I don’t think I should tell you,” Crowley mumbled. “He’s safe, don’t worry. I didn’t mean anything bad. Just...he’s...y’know. He’s growing up. That’s all.”

“Ah. Yes, you’re right. Best not to say anymore.” Aziraphale smiled at him, hoping the expression wasn’t too tender. There were very few parents who guarded their children’s privacy as carefully as Crowley did Warlock’s.

“Right. So. Any plans for New Years? The gremlin wants to go to Times Square but I’m hoping I can convince him to do  _ literally anything else _ .”

* * *

Warlock clung to the side of the rink, glaring down at his feet. He’d never been the most coordinated person - since he’d come to live with his uncle he’d started to think maybe clumsiness was hereditary - but he could usually count on his feet to do what he told them to do.

Until now.

“Come on, Warlock. You have to let go sometime.”

Warlock grunted and kept his eyes down. This was the  _ worst first date _ in the  _ history of the world _ , and he wished the ice would crack open underneath him and put him out of his misery. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just...go have fun. I’ll hang out here.”

“That’s dumb.” Adam grabbed his elbow. “It won’t  _ be _ any fun without you. I’ll help you. Just let go of the wall.”

“Can’t.”

Adam sighed. “You’re so damn stubborn.” He skated around until he was facing Warlock and shifted his hand to grasp Warlock’s gloved fingers. “Seriously. I can show you how, but you have to let go so I can hold the other one too.”

Oh. Well, when he put it _ that _ way…

As if he were moving in slow motion, Warlock pried his fingers from the wall and took Adam’s outstretched hand, letting out a shaky breath. His knees wobbled but he managed to stay upright.

“Great. Okay. So, you’ve gone skating before, right? I mean, roller skates or inlines or something? Or skiing?”

“Yeah.”

“Same idea,” Adam said. “It’s just a little harder because the blades are so thin. You kind of...push your feet at an angle, y’know?”

He knew. He  _ did _ know. Knowing was easy. Doing was hard.

“Just hold on. I’ll help you get started.” Adam began skating slowly backward, and Warlock would probably have been annoyed that he was showing off if he hadn’t been concentrating so hard on not falling on his ass. “Yeah. Like that. Don’t look down!” he said sharply.

Too late. Warlock had glanced down at his feet and lost his balance, his feet sliding out from under him and…

And he was still upright, because Adam had slipped forward and grabbed him around the waist, steadying him.

Oh. Oh,  _ shit _ .

“If you look down, you get dizzy,” Adam said, his breath brushing Warlock’s cheek.

“Uh-huh.”

“So just...keep looking up. At the wall or the tree or...or me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Adam slipped back, sliding his hands down Warlock’s arms until they were gripping each other’s hands again. “One more time?”

Slowly, painstakingly, they made it around the rink once, and then Adam claimed that he was cold and needed a coffee. They pried off their skates and walked into the Rock Center Cafe, where Mrs. Young had been the whole time, absorbed in a magazine. Warlock insisted on buying their drinks, and Adam found them a table.

“Sorry,” Warlock said when they’d been sitting in silence for a minute or so. “I know that was probably really boring for you.” He turned his coffee mug on the table. 

“Yeah,” Adam said, and Warlock’s shoulders drooped. “I mean, holding your hands for two whole hours. Total drag.”

Blinking, Warlock looked up at Adam, not sure he’d heard correctly. “Uh…”

“It was fine. Fun. Don’t know why you’re apologizing.” Adam looked uncertain again. “I mean, unless...unless you don’t…like...uh...”

“No, I did,” Warlock said hurriedly. “I did. Uh. I do. Like. I mean.”

“Okay. So,” Adam’s face relaxed a little, “if you wanted to, we could maybe do this again. Same basic plan, but maybe...different location?”

A second date. A  _ second date _ ?

“Yeah. That’d be cool.”

Adam’s smile could have lit up the entire Plaza all on its own, and Warlock let himself smile in return. He didn’t care if everyone in the cafe thought they were nuts, two loons just sitting there grinning at each other. He was on his  _ first date _ , and he’d been asked on a  _ second _ , and the boy he liked liked him back and was looking at him like he was the coolest thing in the universe, and absolutely nothing in his life had ever felt so wonderful.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Rumour had it that the new kid’s uncle was in the Mafia, based on the rock-solid evidence of his black wardrobe, fancy car, and stern expression. What else would a man like that do?  
2 Probably because he’d been so busy admiring his hair. And his cheekbones. And really just the sheer beauty of Crowley in general.  
\---  
Pretty sure this chapter gave me cavities. Oh well.


	9. Phantoms and Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the New Year, Aziraphale and Crowley go on a totally platonic, not at all romantic theater da - OUTING. Everything goes perfectly.

They went to Times Square on New Year's Eve. Crowley had offered every alternative he could think of that was appropriate for two teenage boys, but Warlock had looked so disappointed, and Crowley had discovered to his embarrassment that the power those sad dark eyes had held over him years ago when he was just a little thing had not lessened in any way. If something made Warlock happy without putting him in danger, Crowley was powerless to deny him. The boy wanted desperately to go to Times Square with his best friend (no one had used the word  _ boyfriend  _ yet, but Crowley had a feeling that was just around the corner), so Crowley would take them.

Didn’t mean he had to be  _ pleasant  _ about it, though.

“If I see a single yawn before the ball drops, we’re leaving,” Crowley grumbled, burying his hands in his pockets. More than anything on this earth, he  _ hated _ winter. Everything about it. The cold, the rain and snow, the overdone winter holidays, the cold, the mess, the  _ cold _ …

“We’re fine,” Warlock said from his place next to Adam. Crowley couldn’t be sure, but he thought they might be holding hands, which was pretty offensively precious. “You’re the one who goes to bed at ten every night.”

“Need my beauty sleep,” Crowley grumbled.

“You’re telling me.”

“Watch it, kid.”

Adam’s shoulders were shaking, but he was doing a pretty good job of muffling his laughter. On the stage, some pop star or other was screech-singing and Crowley wished he’d brought earbuds or earmuffs or something. He loved music, but what was happening right now was more on the lines of lyrical torture than anything else. Warlock and Adam didn’t seem to mind, but then Crowley figured they would put up with just about anything to be there, standing shoulder to shoulder with half of New York in the frigid cold, waiting for a lighted-up ball to drop.

Maybe if  _ he _ had a warm hand to hold, a familiar body to stand close to and a sympathetic ear to whisper snarky observations into, he wouldn’t mind either. He  _ had _ considered asking Aziraphale along, but that would violate their policy of not making Warlock put up with them, and besides, it was New Year’s Eve. At 11:59 the ball would begin to drop and everyone would chant, and then there’d be music and streamers and singing and  _ kissing _ , and Crowley knew how little control he had over his impulses. No way he’d be able to resist kissing Aziraphale silly at midnight, not even with his nephew mere feet away.

He wondered what Aziraphale was doing right now. Probably tucked into a pillowy armchair, a mug of cocoa next to him as he pored over the pages of some memoir or biography - maybe a novel, but Aziraphale had confided that he preferred nonfiction to anything else, with the sole exception of Wilde’s work. “Human history is so full of sublimity and despair and melodrama that fiction can rarely hold a candle to it,” Aziraphale had told him once, thumbing through a biography of Mary Shelley as they stood in yet another old bookshop. “Consider your own story, my dear. Could any novelist devise a more intensely interesting family drama?”

“At least a novelist would have the decency to give me a happy ending,” Crowley had said, “or a satisfyingly gruesome end. Not much fascinating about fading into a solitary old age, dying in my sleep, and then being found days later surrounded by wilting plants.”

Aziraphale had stared at him, his face pale. “Goodness, dear boy,” he said shakily. “What a very maudlin picture.”

“Realistic, though.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale had said briskly, pushing the Shelley biography back into place. “If you think I would allow such a thing to happen…”

“Oh?” Crowley had smirked even as his heart rate picked up. “What are you gonna do about it, eh?”

“Well, you  _ are _ my best friend,” Aziraphale’s voice had invited no argument, “and I’m sure I’ll retire at some point. I imagine we’ll be able to work something out.”

There was a lot to unpack there, and Crowley wasn’t sure he was ready to start. Instead he latched onto  _ my best friend _ and held the words close to his heart, thrilling over their warmth and their proprietary nature. He knew they were true. Even if he had scads of other friends, Aziraphale would be first and best, and not  _ just _ because he was beautiful and irresistible and everything Crowley had ever dreamed of. They fit each other in ways he hadn’t known were possible - smoothing out rough edges and filling in gaps of knowledge and just, in general, becoming  _ more _ together than they were apart.

Which was, he knew, a very sappy way of thinking about his best friend, but he couldn’t help it. The winter holidays had got to him. In a few days he’d be back to his usual sly, snarking self, but until then he was awash in gooey holiday feelings.

“It’s starting!” Adam shouted, and they all squinted up. From this distance the ball was less than impressive, and Crowley wondered who in the hell thought this was the perfect way to ring in the New Year - with a giant glowing orb slowly descending a pole. It was one of the weirder holiday traditions. Still, he watched along with everyone else as the ball approached the clock at the bottom, and as it grew closer and closer he even found himself counting along (quietly, of course, under his breath so no one could hear him).

He sneaked a glance at his nephew when midnight hit and everyone around them began cheering and whistling and kissing, but if either boy had planned this as their first kiss, he had chickened out. Instead, they were grinning at each other, their eyes huge and sparkling and full of hope for the new year. Crowley couldn’t help but be just a  _ little _ jealous.

* * *

The ring of his phone was unexpected, but always welcome. “Hey there, angel. Happy New Year.”

“The same to you,” Aziraphale replied. “Forgive me, I ought to have asked sooner, but did you fancy a bite to eat before the show?”

Crowley’s brain screeched to a halt. “I, uh...what?”

“Tonight? The theatre, my dear.  _ Phantom _ ?”

“Ngk.”

“Oh, really. Did you forget?” Aziraphale sounded as if he were smiling. “You bought the tickets, dear boy.”

“Yeah, but. Well. I mean. I thought…” Thought? Thought  _ what? _ That Aziraphale had someone else to take to the theatre? Another best friend perhaps? A stable of handsome men just waiting for a call from an angel in tartan?

Well, obviously, no, he hadn’t thought any of those things. He’d bought two tickets because it seemed like the thing to do - who wanted a single ticket? But he still hadn’t really thought that Aziraphale would want to take  _ him _ to the theatre, even though he knew very well that he was the only person with whom Aziraphale spent any time regularly.

In conclusion, he was an idiot, and he had about three hours to come to terms with seeing one of the most romantic musicals in history with a man who was beginning to feature quite prominently in his favourite daydreams.

“Sorry. Never mind,” he said at last. “Sure, dinner sounds good. That Thai place you like?”

“Wonderful. Should I meet you there, or…?”

“Nah, I’ll come pick you up. See you around six?”

“Perfect. See you then.”

Crowley rang off and stared at his phone in a blind panic for about two minutes before hurrying to his closet to be sure he actually had something worthy of a night on Broadway. To his relief, his old black pinstripe was there, not too old-fashioned or faded, and it would pair nicely with the cufflinks. He toyed with the idea of going for a haircut, but was brought up short when he realized he hadn’t even spoken to his nephew yet.

Warlock answered his knock readily enough, and Crowley poked his head in. “Hey, kid. I forgot all about a thing I have tonight. I probably won’t be back til around midnight, so I can leave you pizza money and...shit.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. “Will you be alright here? Should I call the Youngs and ask if you can come over?”

“Mrs. Young said I don’t have to ask to go over, but they’re out for the night anyway,” Warlock said without even pausing his video game. “I’ll be fine here, I’ve done it before. What thing?”

“Theatre, with a friend.”

“Cool. Whatcha seeing?”

“Just...a show.”

The game paused and Warlock turned to look at him. “A show?”

“ _ Phantom _ .” Crowley felt his ears turning red.

Warlock raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? Isn’t that one, like, super mushy?”

“A bit.”

“You hate mushy.”

“Despise it.”

“And you’re going with...”

“A friend.”

Warlock studied him for a little while longer. “Are you going on a  _ date _ ?”

“No!” Crowley knew his face was bright red now. “Just…”

“A friend. Right.” Warlock rolled his eyes. “You always go to sappy shows with friends. Stupid me.”

“Hey, I don’t have to answer to you,” Crowley snapped. “I’m the adult here, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Warlock’s jaw tensed and he turned back to his television, unpausing his game. “Yeah, okay. Leave pizza money, whatever. I’ll be fine.”

Guilt crept in under Crowley’s embarrassment. “Kid…”

“Kinda busy.”

With a huff Crowley closed the door, knowing he’d owe Warlock an apology later when the kid was feeling less defensive and  _ he _ was feeling less flustered. He slunk back to his room to see if he still had that red swirly tie he liked so much, and to make sure his shoes were at least passable.

* * *

Aziraphale tried very hard not to fidget with the cuffs of his jacket as he waited for Crowley to arrive. He’d stepped just a bit out of his comfort zone, sartorially speaking, and he was...well, not  _ anxious _ , not exactly, but... _ curious _ to see if Crowley would notice.

If he would approve.

His colour preferences usually ran more on the beige side of the spectrum, but for tonight he’d opted for a grey wool suit with a pale blue shirt underneath and, of course, a bow tie in varying shades of blue and grey. He’d been a bit startled by his reflection because everything was so very  _ different _ , but he could admit that, objectively at least, his appearance wasn’t unfavourable.

He thought he looked quite nice, really, if not much like his usual self.

The Bentley roared into view just then and Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath and straightened the lapels of his new black overcoat. (He’d hated to set aside his favorite camel coat, but it simply would not do with the new colour scheme.) He was going to see one of his favourite musicals with one of his favourite people. Everything was going to be  _ fine _ .

And then Crowley stepped out of the car, dressed in a sleek black pinstripe suit over a black shirt, his tie a shock of blood-red and silver, and Aziraphale knew that absolutely nothing about this night was going to be fine. It would be  _ wonderful _ , and  _ horrible _ , and  _ divine _ , and  _ agonising _ , but fine? No. Nowhere near fine.

“Evenin’, angel,” Crowley said, but the crooked grin he’d started with faltered and faded, and he seemed frozen in place.

“Ah, good evening, my dear,” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “You...you look well.”

“Uh. Yeah.” Crowley cleared his throat. “You too. Don’t think I’ve seen you in black before.”

“Is it too much?” Aziraphale asked, smoothing the front of the coat. “I  _ did _ consider wearing the camel, but…”

“Nah, it’s...good. It’s fine. Looks good.”

Aziraphale eyed his friend warily. “If you’re sure…”

“Yes, I’m sure. Get in, angel, or we won’t have time for dessert.”

Crowley was holding the door open for him, and Aziraphale’s heart gave a tiny flutter as he slid into his seat. These precious few seconds before the car actually moved were always his favourites: they were sat quite close, surrounded by a comfortable silence. And then, regrettably, Crowley would throw the car into gear and they would be off, speeding down the narrow streets of the city as quickly as Crowley dared. Aziraphale could only hang on for dear life and hope that his heart didn’t give out before they made it to the restaurant.

“What are  _ watch out for that pedestrian! _ Warlock’s plans for the evening?”

“Far as I could tell he plans to be glued to that Xbox for the next twelve hours.”

“Is that a  _ the light’s turned YELLOW my dear! _ game of some sort?”

“Wha- yeah, course it is. How do you spend so much time with high schoolers and not know what an Xbox is?”

“Well, they change so often and  _ mind the curb! _ it’s difficult to keep up.”

They pulled up at at last to a spot in front of the restaurant, and Azriaphale took a deep breath, willing his pulse to slow down. He thanked every deity he could think of that the restaurant was within walking distance of the theatre. Much as he loved both Crowley and the car, the combination of the two was nothing short of terrifying.

Crowley had bounded out of his door and come around to the passenger side before Aziraphale even knew what was happening, and when he realized that Crowley had opened his door for him his heart rate sped up again for reasons entirely unrelated to the drive.

“Oh,” he said breathlessly. “Thank you.”

Crowley shrugged and stepped back, and although it was nearly dark Aziraphale thought he could see a flush high on his cheeks. The restaurant, thank heaven, was suitably unromantic - bright lights and simple decor, brusque waiters and quick service. There was no invitation to linger here, no temptation to have just one more glass of wine or a second dessert, to draw the evening out. 

The starters came and Crowley ate exactly one shrimp before nudging the plate in Aziraphale’s direction, and when their entrees arrived they fell into an easy rhythm. They often ordered a few dishes “to share,” which meant that Crowley picked at whatever he found appetizing and Aziraphale never had to ask to sample a particular delicious-looking item. Aziraphale felt his nerves begin to fade. This was familiar. It was  _ nice _ . Just two very good friends sharing pad thai and curry and satay, and if occasionally Aziraphale’s gaze lingered just a  _ bit _ too long on Crowley’s profile or his hands or -  _ heaven forgive him _ \- his lips, that was really no one’s business but his own, was it? He was allowed to admire his friend’s good looks, wasn’t he?

Saints above, Aziraphale really was terrible at lying to himself.

When the bill came, Crowley snatched it up quick as a flash, and Aziraphale frowned at him.

“Really, Crowley,” he said sternly. “You bought the tickets, it’s only fair I pay for dinner.”

“Be quicker next time,” Crowley muttered, tucking his credit card in the little black folder before Aziraphale could even see the total. When he saw Aziraphale’s expression, he added, “Look, consider it part of the Christmas gift, or whatever. Not like I haven’t bought you dinner before.”

This was true, but Aziraphale still felt wrong-footed. What with the tickets, the drive, and now the dinner, the evening was feeling less like a friendly outing every moment, and Crowley’s nonchalance was making him even more anxious. Surely he wasn’t the only one of them to notice?  _ Surely _ Crowley felt it too, this little current of...of  _ something more _ buzzing beneath the surface. His own skin was fairly humming with it, tingling even, but Crowley...he simply signed the receipt and stood with a “Ready to go?” and led the way out of the restaurant without the slightest pause or fidget or blush.

He paused on the sidewalk, though, stepping to the street side of the pavement and matching his long-legged stride to Aziraphale’s rather slower pace. His hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders set against the chill of the winter night, and Aziraphale wondered, with fond exasperation, why on earth he hadn’t brought a coat.

“‘Mfine,” he said when Aziraphale asked him.

“It’s below freezing out here, Crowley. You are  _ not  _ fine.”

“We’ll be at the theatre in a tic, yeah? Don’t worry.”

Aziraphale shook his head and dropped the subject, but picked up his pace. Crowley gave an audible sigh of relief when they were inside the theatre, and stood rubbing his hands together while Aziraphale checked his coat. He still seemed to be thawing when they took their seats, and Aziraphale turned in his seat to face him and huffed. “Oh, give them here.”

“Wha-”

Crowley’s mouth snapped shut when Aziraphale took both of Crowley’s hands in his own, chafing them gently to warm them. “You really  _ must _ invest in a good pair of gloves,” he chided, pleased that his voice was steady and stern. “I don’t know how you’ve survived this long in New York without them.”

“Keep losing them,” Crowley replied quietly.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Crowley’s hands were no longer shaking with cold, but Aziraphale continued to rub them gently, hoping to infuse some actual warmth into them. It occurred to him suddenly that this was the first time he’d touched Crowley’s hands outside of the odd handshake, and they were very nice hands indeed: smooth and long-fingered, and meticulously clean, which was a bit surprising considering his profession. He drew his thumb across the back of one and Crowley jumped a little, pulling them out of his grasp.

“Good now. Thanks.”

Aziraphale suddenly found it impossible to meet his friend’s eyes, so he looked up at a point somewhere beyond Crowley’s left ear and smiled thinly. “Not a problem.”

They settled into their seats, taking in the details of the auction set, and after a moment Crowley hummed next to him. 

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve actually seen this show before.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Aziraphale turned to stare at him, embarrassment forgotten.

Crowley shrugged. “I mean I’ve heard some of the music and I do live in, y’know,  _ the world _ . I know the story. But I’ve never seen the show.”

“Well.” Aziraphale smiled. “I think you’ll find you have quite a bit in common with the title character.”

“Doesn’t he, like, kill a bunch of people? And stalk and kidnap a girl?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale mused. “I was thinking more along the lines of his penchant for black and a flair for the dramatic.”

“Shaddap,” Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice. The lights dimmed and they settled back in their seats. Onstage, the auction began. After a moment or so Crowley fidgeted in his seat and leaned over to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear. “I thought this was an opera.”

“No, dear, it’s a  _ musical _ ,” Aziraphale whispered back.

“So where’s the music?”

“Be  _ patient _ , you ridiculous thing.”

Crowley settled back in his seat, his arms crossed, and Aziraphale watched him from the corner of his eye as Lot 666 was announced (he could  _ feel _ Crowley rolling his eyes).

“Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination,” the auctioneer said. “Gentlemen?” The lights flashed, the overture began, and as the opera house was restored to its former glory, Aziraphale saw a small smile sneak its way onto Crowley’s face.

* * *

He was in hell. Actual hell.

The show was fine, really. It was a show. There was music, and the acting was good, and the story was...well, it was really fucking creepy, actually. He was rooting for Raoul. He seemed like a good kid, and at least he’d never hid in the vents of an opera house and convinced a teenage girl that he was an angel of music sent by her father. Probably. Anyway, all of that was just fine. What  _ wasn’t _ fine sat a few inches to his right, his face awash with delight, his lips sometimes moving along with the singers’.

When he’d pulled up and seen Aziraphale standing there in his new black overcoat, he’d known this whole thing had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.

Aziraphale always looked a certain way. He was handsome, sure, but he always looked quaint and comfortable and slightly rumpled, like a lovely antique sofa that had been sat on a few too many times. He always wore cream and gold and white, colours that made him look sweet and approachable and ethereal...like the angel he was named for. In grey and blue and black, though, he looked less like an angel and more like a  _ man _ . A red-blooded, human man who enjoyed the company of other men. He looked gorgeous and worldly and entirely too sexy. 

He looked downright  _ dangerous _ .

And Crowley was sat next to him in a dark theatre while sweepingly romantic music played all around them. Raoul and Christine were on the roof of the opera house, now, singing to each other about sharing one love, one lifetime, while the jealous Phantom looked on, and all Crowley could think about was the fact that Aziraphale had set his arm on the armrest sometime during the beginning of  _ Il Muto _ and, despite the fact that Crowley’s arm had already been there, he hadn’t moved it.

Their arms were just...there. Next to each other. On the armrest. Their hands weren’t brushing, but they  _ could _ be, and Crowley was trying to remember how breathing worked because he thought there might be a bit of a scene if he fainted in the middle of the show. It was getting increasingly difficult because of that whole thing before, when Aziraphale had taken his hands and rubbed them and he’d nearly had a heart attack on the spot because how long, exactly, had he been daydreaming about holding Aziraphale’s hands and then  _ there they were _ and…

Onstage, the Phantom sent the chandelier careening toward the woman he claimed to love, the cast scattered, and the house lights went up. Aziraphale’s arm left the armrest, and Crowley could breathe again.

“Care for a glass of wine, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, as if nothing about any of this was unusual.

“Join you in a sec,” Crowley said. Aziraphale nodded and walked off and Crowley tilted his head back until it rested on the back of the seat, taking several deep breaths.

Fine. He was fine. All of this was  _ fine _ . He only had to get through the second act. No problem.

He rose and went in search of his friend.

* * *

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale was waiting patiently at the concession stand when he heard his name - in a voice that was decidedly  _ not _ Crowley’s. He turned and looked around, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The tall, dark-haired ghost of relationships past was bearing down on him, and he had nowhere to hide.

“Ah, Jack.” Aziraphale gave him his chilliest smile. “How are you?”

“Thought that was you. I’m great, thanks. How about you? You look good.”

“I’m very well, thank you. Excuse me.” He turned to the young lady behind the counter and ordered two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“So. Still a theater nut, I see,” Jack said, leaning against the counter as Aziraphale counted out the truly exorbitant amount of money he was being charged.

“You getting anything?” the young lady asked. Jack waved her off without looking at her and Aziraphale ground his teeth.

“He’s fine, thank you, dear,” he said, pointedly smiling at her. He reached for the wine, but Jack beat him to it, taking one of the glasses and then his arm, steering him into a slightly less crowded corner of the lobby.

“You really do look good, Azi,” Jack said, his eyes sweeping over Aziraphale in a way that made his skin itch. “Did you lose some weight?”

“Not on purpose,” Aziraphale said stiffly. “If I could have that glass, Jack…”

“There you are, angel.” Crowley had materialized at his side, one arm snaking around his shoulders. He grinned pointedly at Jack and plucked the wine glass from the other man’s hand. “I’ll assume that’s for me. Thanks for holding it…”

“Crowley, dear, this is Jack Wallace. Jack, Anthony Crowley.”

“Pleasure,” Crowley drawled before draining half his glass of wine.

“Likewise.” Jack looked between them. “You, uh...you’re here together, then?”

“Sharp as a tack, you are.”

“ _ Crowley _ .”

Jack smiled sharply. “Nah, it’s okay, Azi. It  _ was  _ kind of a dumb question. So...what’s new? Still babysitting?”

“Teaching. Yes.”

“Eh, if you can call what they let you do these days teaching.”

“Sorry, what exactly is it that you do again?” Crowley asked.

“Jack is an associate at Gage Whitney Pace.”

“Oh, sure. Makes sense.”

“I am quite content with my profession, Jack,” Aziraphale said calmly. “I could, perhaps, wish for a bit more respect and support from the public.”

“Well what do you expect? You know what they say about teachers -” Aziraphale sighed because yes, of course, he’d heard this  _ literally hundreds of times _ but everyone thought they were the first, and - “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” Ah, there it was. “No offense, Azi, but teaching isn’t exactly a high-yielding career. Be honest. How much do they pay you to take care of those disrespectful gremlins? What do you make?”

Crowley’s arm dropped from Aziraphale’s shoulders and he took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll tell you what he makes, you absolute prick,” he snarled. “He makes a  _ difference _ . To me, and to my kid, and to a whole bunch of other people’s kids. He’s got scores of people that absolutely  _ worship _ him. Can you say the same?” Jack glared at him. “Thought not.” The lights in the lobby flickered, and Crowley tossed back the rest of his wine. “You ready, angel?”

Aziraphale, who had been staring at Crowley in a kind of trance, looked down at his full glass of wine. “Oh, I...yes, rather.” He set the glass on a nearby table and gave Jack a cool look. “Goodbye, Jack.” Then he followed his friend into the theatre.

“Sorry about that,” Crowley muttered when they were once again in their seats. “He was pissing me off.”

“Oh, nothing to be sorry about,” Aziraphale said, his heart still racing. “He has that effect on  _ everyone _ .”

“Old friend of yours?”

“Of a sort.” Aziraphale sighed. “He seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Don’t they all.” Crowley seemed lost in thought for a moment. “ _ Azi? _ ”

“Dreadful nickname.” Aziraphale shuddered. “I always despised it.”

“Yeah. And now he’s ruined  _ gremlin _ for me, too. Bastard.”

Aziraphale smiled and settled into his seat for the second act. Unfortunately, he simply couldn’t give the play his full attention anymore. His mind kept tossing Crowley’s words back into his ears. _He makes a difference to me. Scores of people who worship him. Makes a difference. To me._ _Worship._ _A difference. _**_Worship. Angel._**

He was pulled out of his reverie when Crowley leaned over to whisper in his ear again, his breath fluttering over Aziraphale’s skin and making his whole body tingle. “You okay, angel?”

“Yes of course.”

“You look a little peaky, is all.”

“I’m fine, my dear. Absolutely tickety boo.”

Crowley sat back, and Aziraphale thought he heard him mutter  _ tickety boo _ under his breath. Onstage, Christine was entranced by the Angel of Music in the graveyard, and Aziraphale knew just how she felt - intrigued by the dark, mysterious, talented creature who had championed her when the managers preferred La Carlotta, powerless before his charm. Of course,  _ his _ dark and mysterious figure had never, to his knowledge, garroted a man or flung a chandelier at someone, but he felt some sympathy all the same.

Beside him, Crowley grew more and more fidgety as the show drew to a close. At the final curtain, he leapt to his feet to applaud and then quite kindly but firmly directed Aziraphale out at the first opportunity. After collecting Aziraphale's coat, they stood in the lobby for a little while, steeling themselves for the cold walk, and Crowley shifted his feet.

“So...that play...people really think that’s a love story?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t you?”

Crowley shrugged, looking a tad downcast. “I mean, I guess, technically. I liked Christine and that Raoul kid. The Phantom, though. Total creep.”

They were pushed out the door now by the insistent crowds, and they made their way back toward the Bentley.

“I mean, Christine was just a girl,” Crowley continued. “And that arsehole pretended to be her father. Or an angel her father sent. Or both, or whatever.”

“No one ever said it was a  _ nice _ love story.”

“I guess.” Crowley hunched his shoulders against the cold. “But...he didn’t really love her, did he? He was obsessed with her, but he  _ couldn’t _ love her. I mean, he didn’t even know her.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale stepped closer, hoping some of his body heat might transfer to his friend.

“Like, Raoul knew her, right? He knew that rhyme she liked, and the stories they read, and…”

“Yes, my dear, you’re right,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Of course you are. That’s why, I believe, she does leave with Raoul in the end. But love can also be a bit... _ obsessive, _ I’ve found. It isn’t always logical. Haven’t you ever met someone for the first time and been...well... _ overwhelmed _ ?”

There was a pause, and then Crowley gave a small huff. “Yeah. Guess so. Still like Raoul better.”

Silence fell, and remained unbroken until they’d reached the car. When they were on the road again, Aziraphale hazarded a question. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Course I did.” Crowley sent him a grin. “You?”

“Oh, always.” Whether he meant  _ always with you _ or  _ always at the theatre _ was open to interpretation, he decided.

“Great. A plus present buying, me. I should teach a class.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but had no time to reply because they’d pulled up in front of his building. “Well.” He swallowed. “I. Thank you. For a lovely evening.”

“Yeah. No problem. I mean, y’know. You too. Thanks.”

Their gazes caught and held and Aziraphale had no idea what possessed him to say what he said next.

“I don’t suppose you’d care for a nightcap.”

Crowley’s eyes widened and his fingers clenched on the steering wheel before he tore his gaze away. “Nah, I’m - I’m good, ang...Aziraphale. Better get back to the kid, y’know?”

“Oh. Oh, yes of course.” Mortification flooded him and he fumbled for the door handle. “Thank you again. Mind how you go.”

“G’night.”

Aziraphale hurried away from the car and into the building as fast as he could, leaning heavily against the closed door. Over the thunderous pounding of his heart, he heard a long blast from a car horn and then the rumble of a motor as the vehicle drove away. He hoped there hadn't been an accident, and that no one had been hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's response to Jack comes from the end of teacher-turned-slam-poet Taylor Mali's poem What Teachers Make, which is one of my personal favorites. I recommend listening to it rather than reading it.


	10. Puzzle Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is a bit mixed up since the theatre-date-that-wasn't, but Aziraphale and Crowley can't seem to stop talking to each other. Meanwhile, Warlock makes some discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first quarter of the year has ended, and NOBODY FLUNKED ANY OF MY CLASSES WOOOOO
> 
> To celebrate, have a chapter.

When Warlock walked out of his room the next day, he was a little surprised to find his uncle already awake. Uncle AJ was definitely not a morning person, and he’d been out pretty late. Warlock really hadn’t expected to see him until about noon.

He also hadn’t expected him to be making pancakes.

Oh.

“Hey, kid,” Uncle AJ said, sliding a few pancakes onto a plate. “Last day of break.”

“Yeah.”

“Any plans?”

“Not really.” Warlock took the plate and sat at the kitchen bar and watched his uncle. He looked guilty, alright, and like he was trying to pretend everything was fine. Whatever. At least he got pancakes.

“So, look,” Uncle AJ said, sitting next to him at the counter and picking at his own plate of guilt-cakes. “About last night. Sorry for being such a jerk.”

“‘Sokay.”

They ate in silence for a little while, and Warlock thought about how he’d felt when Adam asked him on their first date: like it couldn’t possibly be happening, like he might have misunderstood. Maybe his uncle had felt like that.

“How was the show?”

“It was good. More spooky than mushy, really. It’s one of...my friend’s favourites, so.” For a minute Warlock thought that might be it, but he should have known better. “Look,” Uncle AJ sighed, “I know I said I’m sorry, but...you should know I was also full of shit.”

“So...it  _ was _ a date?”

“Maybe. I dunno.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Uncle AJ fidgeted with his fork. “I can’t - there are reasons we can’t really  _ date _ . Officially.”

“Like what?”

“Like - look, I can’t…”

“Are they a  _ spy _ ?”

Uncle AJ snorted coffee out of his nose. “Fuck,” he coughed when he could breathe again. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. No, he’s not a spy.”

_ He. _ Well, that was one mystery cleared up. Then a horrible, bone-chilling possibility occurred to him. “He’s not  _ married _ , is he?”

“No!” Uncle AJ sounded horrified. “Wha - I’d never - kid, you know…”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Images danced in his head - his father standing just a little too close to some of his female staffers, smiles and winks exchanged...but he knew Uncle AJ wasn’t like that. He  _ knew _ it. “Sorry, I know.”

“Anyway. Last night had nothing to do with you. It was just me being a nervous jerk.” Uncle AJ looked like he would rather swallow nails than say anymore, and Warlock kind of hoped that was it because  _ Christ _ this was uncomfortable. “It doesn’t get any easier. Liking someone. Trying to figure out if they like you. I shouldn’t have taken all that out on you, though.”

Warlock shrugged. Please, someone, let this conversation be over. “It’s fine. I’m gonna go find out if the Them have anything planned for today.”

“Sure. One last hurrah, yeah?”

“Whatever that means, old man.”

“Don’t make me ground you.”

* * *

Crowley wasn’t planning to call or text Aziraphale on the last day of break - partly because it actually  _ wasn’t _ Aziraphale’s last day of break, he had professional development all day and wouldn’t be able to chat. Mostly, though, Crowley needed a bit of a breather. That night at the theatre had been the most amazing and horrible night of his life and he hadn’t fully dealt with it yet.

There’d been the new look, obviously, which had thrown him off right from the start. (He hoped it wasn’t permanent. Delicious as he’d looked, Crowley much preferred Aziraphale’s accustomed softness.) Not to mention watching Aziraphale enjoy  _ anything _ was overwhelming in itself. Didn’t matter what it was. Food, books, wine, and, apparently, musicals - Aziraphale enjoyed them all with a relish that was practically  _ indecent _ . 

Then there in the lobby had been smarmy Jack Wallace with his handsome face and dark hair and sly smile, and Crowley hadn’t heard what he’d said before the awful teacher comments but he could feel Aziraphale’s discomfort from across the room. Any slight, minuscule, not-even-worth-mentioning nugget of jealousy that might have considered forming would have been banished by Aziraphale’s cold smile and stiff body language, and Crowley had determined to put an end to whatever was making him look so unhappy.  He  _ hated _ to see Aziraphale unhappy.

And finally, of course, there’d been the ride home and the offer of a  _ nightcap _ . Which was probably exactly what Aziraphale meant, right? Just a nice quiet late-night drink between friends, a way of coming down a bit from the emotional rollercoaster that was  _ Phantom _ . Sitting in cozy chairs, talking and laughing and drinking, until one of them remembered that there was a teenage boy sleeping by himself in a Park Slope flat and that Crowley really ought to go home. Obviously that was what Aziraphale had meant.

But that wasn’t what Crowley had  _ imagined _ in the three seconds before he regained control of his brain.

He’d imagined a sofa, and the two of them sitting just slightly too close together, the heat from their bodies warming the space between them. He’d imagined shy smiles, questioning glances, the light but deliberate brush of fingers as a glass was handed to him. He’d imagined a sharp inhale as one or the other of them pretended to spot dust or a crooked tie or a tucked lapel, gentle touches as these imaginary imperfections were smoothed away. He’d imagined one of them moving closer, leaning in as if drawn by magnets or gravity or magic…

And then he’d snapped out of it, gripped the steering wheel so hard he was surprised his knuckles didn’t crack, and declined. When Aziraphale was safely inside the building, Crowley had dropped his head to the steering wheel and let the horn blast just long enough to remind him of what an idiot he was, and roared off for home.

At least, he thought to himself as Warlock left the flat for an “epic snowball battle royale” with his friends, he’d smoothed things over with the kid. Which was the point of everything, wasn’t it? To make things good for Warlock? He had to remember that.

He spent some time at his shop - he didn’t open it, but there was watering to be done and a few plants needed re-potting, and there were a few orders to check up on. Being around the plants always grounded him, reminded him that there were actually things in this world that he understood, that didn’t throw him for a loop. He was feeling quite calm and collected when his phone rang, but one look at the caller ID told him that wouldn’t last long.

“What, Harriet?”

“Tony. Happy New Year.”

“Yeah, fuck you very much too.”

“ _ Excuse _ me?”

“Did we miss your call on Christmas? Maybe Tad’s secretary lost your son’s mobile number.”

His sister was silent. “I figured you’d be busy on Christmas with those friends of his. I didn’t want to disturb him.”

“What was  _ disturbing _ to him was not being asked home for Christmas, and getting the same ugly card you send to every wanker politician around the globe.” Crowley tossed his gloves violently at a bin. “And now you’re calling me instead of him.  _ What. _ Do you  _ want. _ ”

“I got an email from his school. Apparently there’s an investigation into an incident with one of his teachers? I thought you said he was doing well?”

“He was.  _ Is _ . The teacher’s an absolute arsehole who hates anything that doesn’t fit in his world view.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I’m serious about this. We’ve got witnesses. He’s a bully and a coward, and Warlock did his best but…” How had Aziraphale put it? “Any living thing will defend itself. He tried, but Shadwell made it impossible.”

“They want me to make a statement. How am I supposed to do that?”

“You’re not. I’ll contact the school, explain you’re out of the country. I’ll take care of it.”

“Alright. I would have popped over if it was necessary, obviously, but if you’ve got everything under control…”

“Oh, yeah, just raising your son. No big deal.”

“If it’s too much for you…”

“Don’t start that shite. I didn’t ask for him to come here, but I  _ want _ him here now. This isn’t about me, it’s about  _ you _ . How can you  _ not want him _ ?”

There was another pause. “I do want him, Tony. I miss him terribly, sometimes. But we both know he’s better off with you.”

Crowley’s heart froze in his chest _ . _ “I’ve gotta go, Harriet. It’s been a real  _ treat _ talking to you.”

He tossed the phone on the workbench in front of him and leaned against the edge, his arms shaking.  _ Sometimes _ . She missed Warlock  _ sometimes _ ? He’d lived with the kid for six months and if for some reason Warlock decided to move back to England, Crowley knew he’d spend every single moment of every single fucking godawful  _ day _ missing him. And Harriet missed him  _ sometimes _ ?

He loved his sister. Really he did. But right at that moment he could cheerfully have…

He took a deep breath, picked up his phone, and called Aziraphale. Who even cared about the rules anymore. He needed to talk, and hadn’t Aziraphale said something about life preservers?

* * *

Crowley’s number flashed on the screen of Aziraphale’s mobile and, for the first time in weeks, Aziraphale considered not answering it. He was still feeling a bit shaky and embarrassed from the night before. In all his years of being a teacher, he’d never come so close to compromising his integrity as he had that night - and that was  _ before _ he’d asked Crowley to come up after their evening out.

He wouldn’t even try to pretend to himself that he hadn’t meant anything by it, because it would be a fruitless endeavour. Every glance from Crowley’s bright eyes, every brush of his arm, every chuckle at a shared joke had chipped away at his professional boundaries until, sat in a dark car outside his flat, he had felt them crumble completely, and he’d found himself issuing the invitation before he could consider the consequences. Crowley’s refusal in the dark of night had been mortifying enough; now in the cold light of day, faced with a possible apology and an “it’s not you, it’s me” conversation, he wanted a bit to curl up in his armchair and sleep til doomsday.

The phone buzzed a third time and Aziraphale sighed, cursed his own weakness, and answered. “Hello.”

“Hey. Got a sec?”

Aziraphale was tempted to tell him that no, he was actually quite busy, could this humiliating conversation wait a decade or so? But Crowley sounded very upset, so he pushed aside his discomfort. “Of course.”

“I’ve just heard from my sweet sister.”

Aziraphale frowned, caught between concern and relief. On the one hand, he knew how upsetting conversations with Harriet Dowling tended to be for Crowley. On the other, it seemed he’d been given a reprieve. “Is everything alright?”

“No one’s died or injured. She’s just…” Crowley made an incomprehensible sound somewhere between a growl and a whine. “She’s infuriating. She doesn’t call on Christmas, doesn’t call on New Year’s. She didn’t even ask to  _ talk _ to Warlock.”

“What did she want?”

“To make sure she wouldn’t have to actually be a parent for this thing with Shadwell.” Crowley sighed. “I don’t know what to do, here, angel. Do I tell him his mum called? Do I pretend she was sorry to miss him? Or do I just keep schtum about the whole thing? How do you decide when to be honest and when to hold back?”

Aziraphale hummed. “That is a difficult one, and I’m afraid I can’t really give you the answer. You know Warlock best, so you need to consider the possible consequences of each choice. If you tell him the unvarnished truth, that his mother called but had no interest in talking to him, how will he react? Conversely, if you withhold information and he finds out, how will he react? How will either choice affect your relationship?”

“I thought honesty was your thing.”

“It is - to a point. I believe honesty should be used to strengthen relationships, not tear them apart. I’m not fond of these ‘brutally honest’ types. If you can’t deliver your message kindly and helpfully, it’s best to stay silent.”

“Right.” Crowley was quiet for a moment. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Of course, my dear.”

There another pause before his friend spoke up again. “So. Ready for the big top to reopen?”

Aziraphale smiled and settled back in his chair. Perhaps his foolish behaviour the night before hadn’t ruined things after all. “Oh, quite. I can only hope they’ve retained  _ some _ of the information I’ve been teaching them all year. Simply astonishing, what the teenage brain considers worthy of attention. Or not worthy, as the case may be.”

“It doesn’t get better with age,” Crowley pointed out. “I can’t remember which toilet paper to buy half the time, but I’ll know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell until the day I die. What use is that, I ask you?”

“I suppose it might come up on  _ Jeopardy  _ one day.”

“Oh, right, I’ll just keep that nugget tucked away for my inevitable  _ Jeopardy  _ debut .” Crowley snorted. “You  _ would _ watch  _ Jeopardy _ .”

“Keeps my skills honed.”

“Your skills of having a bunch of useless knowledge and being a know-it-all?”

“We’ll see how useless it is when you’re on  _ Jeopardy _ and you can’t remember the function of a mitochondrion.”

“Nah, see, that’s the one I’ll remember. The one brand of toilet paper that doesn’t feel like sandpaper on your arse,  _ that’s _ the one I’ll fuck up.”

Aizraphale was now giggling helplessly. “What category would that question be under, dear?”

“...Once More Unto the Breech?”

Aziraphale choked on air.

* * *

No one is ever really  _ happy _ to get back to school after a break, but Warlock doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he would. For one thing, Shadwell is still gone. For another, there are a whole bunch of things that he and Adam haven’t done together at school yet. Like wait at each other’s lockers between classes, or send secret text messages and go to the bathroom at the same time so they can talk for a few minutes, or nudge each other’s shoes under the desks when they work in groups. It’s going to be  _ awesome _ .

He still feels a little queasy walking into the gym during fourth period, though. He can still hear Shadwell calling him a crybaby, and while they’re changing he knows everyone is wondering about the new gym teacher, and thinking about why they have a new gym teacher in the first place. He slinks out into the gym with the rest of his class, taking his place on the floor and following the class leaders through the stretches and calisthenics. When they’re done, a shrill whistle blows through the air, and everyone looks up to see a tall youngish guy near the bleachers, clipboard in hand and whistle still in his mouth.

“Morning, fellas!” he says, allowing the whistle to drop. He has the kind of loud booming teacher voice that never needs a microphone. “I’m Mr. Stuart, and I’m taking the reins for Coach Shadwell for awhile.” He frowns down at his clipboard. “I promise I’ll learn all your names before the end of the year, but bear with me while I’m learning, okay?” He starts to call the roll, and Warlock almost sighs in relief when he doesn’t stumble over  _ Warlock Dowling _ .

“So, this semester we’ll be focusing on hand-eye coordination and improving your reflexes. I’ll show you the ropes on each of the skills and see where each of you is to start out. Later on, there’ll be stations around the gym for each skill. You can spend as much time as you want at any of the stations, but by the end of the quarter you have to show me that you’ve improved in all of them. I’m gonna spend most of my time at the juggling station for obvious reasons, but you can always call me over if you need something.

“Today we’re starting with the hardest skill: juggling.”

Every student gets two tennis balls and Mr. Stuart shows them how to switch the balls in midair. Some people are better at it than others, obviously, and every now and then someone’s tennis ball bounces off across the gym, but Mr. Stuart just yells “Runaway ball!” and urges the nearest people to race to get it first. By the end of the period everyone more or less has the hang of it, and Mr. Stuart sends them off to dress with the promise of jump ropes the next day. Warlock thinks he might actually start to _like_ gym.

By the time sixth period rolls around, Warlock is actually kind of excited to see Mr. Fell again. He meets Adam at his locker and they walk in together, both of them smiling at Mr. Fell’s enthusiastic greeting. As Warlock sets his stuff down at his desk, he realizes that something is...off. Different.

Mr. Fell is a little scattered as a person, his classroom a little cluttered, but his desk is always perfectly clean. The same five things have been sitting on it since the first day of school: a pencil holder with several sharpened pencils, a notepad, a tiny vase with a new flower in it every week, a stapler, and one of those daily calendar things with weird historical facts. Today, though, there’s something new. Sitting right next to the pencil holder is a white ceramic mug. It has wings instead of a handle, and it looks really,  _ really _ familiar.

There’s a ding in Warlock’s brain, like when he gets a text message but can’t get to his phone right away. He  _ knows _ he’s seen that mug before. He has bellwork to do, so he looks away from the mug and focuses on the paper in front of him, trying to understand what he’s expected to do. But he keeps thinking about the mug. He can’t  _ stop _ thinking about it.

“Well!” Mr. Fell chirps five minutes after the bell. “I hope you all had a lovely holiday. I don’t suppose anyone would like to share?”

“We had a party at my house,” Adam says, because he  _ loves _ to share. “It was awesome. Lots of people came, and we had one of those funny gift exchanges.”

The text-message-notification ding in Warlock’s head gets louder and he looks back at the mug. He remembers the white elephant exchange where he got an actual white elephant and Uncle AJ…

Uncle AJ got a mug. A white mug with wings.

“What about you, Mr. Fell?” someone asks.

“Oh, I had a  _ wonderful _ time, thank you,” Mr. Fell beams. “I read several good books, and even went to the theatre.”

“What show did you see?” someone else asks. Warlock knows the answer even before he hears it.

“ _ The Phantom of the Opera. _ One of my favourites. Well! Shall we dive once more into the intricacies of contemporary issues?”

_ Snap _ . That’s the sound of the final piece falling into place in Warlock’s brain. His mind goes completely blank and he doesn’t hear a word Fell says; he kind of notices Adam’s concerned looks but he’s not upset or angry...he’s just  _ confused _ .

Uncle AJ and Mr. Fell?  _ Seriously _ ?

_ It doesn’t get any easier. Liking someone. Trying to figure out if they like you. _ Shit, he was talking about  _ Mr. Fell _ ?  _ Liking _ Mr. Fell? Trying to figure out if Mr. Fell  _ liked him back _ ? If the theatre thing had been a maybe-date with  ** _Mr. Fell_ ** ?

Then he remembers other things. Things like that first conference (and Uncle AJ’s smile), and the phone calls, and the meeting at the botanical garden, and the after-work drinks, and the weekend lunches - how long has it been going on? The excuses to see each other, the weekly conversations that are clearly  _ not _ about him, the night at the theatre - he starts to get a headache. He feels like he might throw up.

It can’t be true. It just  _ can’t. _

When the bell rings and he gets up to leave, he feels like a zombie.

“Are you okay?” Adam asks, sounding worried. “You didn’t take any notes.”

“I’ll have to borrow yours,” Warlock says. “I was thinking.”

“About what?”

Warlock hesitates. “Can we talk about it after school?”

“I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No, it’s not about you.” Warlock looks around to make sure no teachers are watching and then squeezes Adam’s hand. “Promise.”

“Okay. After school.”

Moments after the final bell rings, Adam is standing by Warlock’s locker, still looking a bit nervous. He looks like he’s about to say something, so Warlock shakes his head. “Not yet. I can’t...I can’t  _ be  _ here.”

They’re a few blocks from the school when Warlock suddenly realizes that he  _ really _ doesn’t want to go home. He can’t face his uncle until he’s figured out how he feels about all of... _ this _ . Whatever  _ this _ is. He pulls out his mobile and taps out a quick text, then turns to Adam, who is watching him like he might explode or something.

“It’s Crowley,” he says, hating how small his voice sounds. “He lied to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Aziraphale is an intellectual and Crowley has a great deal of emotional intelligence, I think it's important to remember that they are both, also, complete idiots. 
> 
> Who apparently think Warlock won't notice a re-gifted mug and eerily similar holiday stories.
> 
> News flash, morons. He noticed.


	11. Messes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of messes to clean up - figuratively and literally - and somehow, the teenagers manage to get their shit together before the adults do.

“It’s Crowley,” Warlock said, hating how small his voice sounds. “He lied to me.”

Adam looked like Warlock had started speaking Greek. “About what?”

“Everything? I don’t know.” Warlock took a shaky breath. “I think he - he’s been dating Mr. Fell.”

Now Adam looked like Warlock smacked him upside the head with a fish. “_ What? _”

“The mug on his desk - Crowley got that at your party. And he went to the theatre over break too. _ Phantom of the Opera _ . They went _ together _ . On a _ date _.”

“Wow. Good for them, I guess.”

Warlock glared at him and turned away.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t you _ get it _ ? They’ve been lying this _ whole time _ . Saying they’re _ just friends _ , pretending to talk about _ me _…”

“Hold on,” Adam said, taking his hand and pulling him around. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying they’re _ liars _ . I _ knew _ something was up. I knew Mr. Fell couldn’t care about me that much.”

“That’s not fair,” Adam protested. “Fell’s been here forever, I have cousins in college who had him, he’s always cared about kids. He’s everybody’s favorite teacher.”

“Not _ mine _.” Warlock snatched his hand away from Adam’s and started to walk away.

“Why are you being so weird about this?” Adam asked, following him. “Why does it matter if they like each other?”

“Because they _ lied _,” Warlock shouted. “Grown-ups shouldn’t lie!”

“Grown-ups lie all the time,” Adam argued. “Sometimes it’s about stupid shit like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, and sometimes it’s about big stuff like why Mom isn’t drinking wine at dinner anymore or why Dad spent the night on the couch.”

“But Uncle AJ doesn’t lie. He’s _ never _ lied to me.”

“Did he really lie to you though? Like, did you ask him if he was dating Mr. Fell and he straight up said no?”

Warlock paused and then answered reluctantly. “He said he liked someone but he couldn’t date him right now.”

“So maybe they’re not dating.”

“They go out for drinks every weekend. They have dinner, like, _ all the time _ . They _ went _ to the _ theatre _. And...he said it might have been a date.”

Adam raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, fine,” Warlock huffed. “Maybe he didn’t _ lie _. But he didn’t tell me the truth, either.”

“He probably didn’t know you’d take it so well.”

“Shut up.”

Adam stepped closer and put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into an awkward one-armed hug. “If they were sneaking around or something I’d get it. But it just sounds like they were hanging out and then started to like each other. That happens sometimes, y’know?” He gave Warlock an exaggerated wink and Warlock rolled his eyes.

“If that’s all, why are they keeping it a secret?”

“I don’t know. I’m a genius, not a psychic.”

“You’re such a jerk sometimes.”

“But I’m _ your _ jerk.”

“Lucky me.”

Adam stepped in front of him and pulled him closer for a real-deal hug. “Feel better?”

It was kind of a dirty trick, because of _ course _ Warlock felt better wrapped up in his best friend’s arms like that. “Yeah.”

“Cool. You should probably go home and talk to Crowley.”

Warlock groaned into Adam’s shoulder. “If he starts getting all sappy about Mr. Fell, I’m running away.”

“Dramatic much?”

“Runs in the family.” Warlock stepped out of the hug. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

For a second, Warlock thought maybe this was it. Adam looked at him, and smiled softly, and...and they were on a sidewalk in New York in January, and people were giving them dirty looks as they pushed past, and...he sighed and backed away. “Call you later?”

Adam grinned at him. “Can’t wait.”

* * *

_Walking home with Adam. Might be late._

Well, at least the kid was communicating now. Crowley set his phone on the counter and sauntered into what could generously be termed the conservatory - a room in the flat that housed his very favourite plants - to mist and fertilize and generally remind the plants who was boss. He was still working out some of his anger at Harriet; he’d given her a couple of days to contact Warlock, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen, so he planned to let the kid know tonight. He wasn’t wild about the prospect of telling Warlock something that would just damage his faith in his mother further, but this was the best he could do. All the other options sucked worse.

He was stirring cream into a pot of mushroom soup when he heard the swing of the door and the thump of a heavy backpack. “Cuttin’ it close, kid!” he called.

“What’s for dinner? It smells gross.”

“Mushroom soup.”

“Oh.” Warlock sighed. “At least it tastes good even if it smells like garbage.”

“Almost done. Get the bowls?”

Warlock did as he was asked without complaint, which wasn’t all that odd, but something felt off. He was very quiet throughout dinner, too, which, again, wasn’t exactly strange, but he looked so thoughtful and serious that Crowley started to worry.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine.”

That meant something was _ definitely _ wrong. “Heard from your mum recently?”

“Nope.”

Shit.

When they’d set the bowls in the dishwasher and cleaned up, Crowley tossed his towel on the counter and decided he might as well get it over with.

“So, look, kid. I heard from your mum a few days ago. I kinda hoped she’d call you on her own, but…” he shrugged.

“What did she want?”

“She heard about the Shadwell thing. She wanted to make sure you were really okay.”

“Yeah, right.”

“She really did, kid.”

“Is that all she wanted?”

Crowley sighed. “No. She wanted to know if she needed to come over and make a statement. I told her not to worry about it.”

“I bet she was really torn up.”

“She does her best, y’know.”

“Her best sucks.”

Crowley had nothing to say to that. After a few minutes of watching Warlock pick at his fingernails, he tried for a change of subject. “So...how was the first day back?”

“Fine.” Warlock took a deep breath. “I learned something new.”

“Yeah?” His nephew actually volunteering information? This was a first. “What’d you learn?”

“I learned that _ Phantom of the Opera _ is one of Mr. Fell’s favourite musicals, and that he went to see it over break.”

Crowley thought his heart might literally have stopped in his chest. “Oh. Uh.”

Warlock crossed his arms and glared at him. “You gonna tell me that was a coincidence?”

“Guess not.”

They stared silently at each other for awhile, the air around them growing thicker with each passing second.

“You were _ hiding _ stuff from me,” Warlock said at last. “You keep saying we have to be honest but I guess that just applies to me.”

“Now hold on, kid,” Crowley said. Now that his heart had started up again he had the vague suspicion that, for once, he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. “I never lied to you.”

“You didn’t tell me the truth either!”

“I told you as much as you needed to know,” Crowley said sternly. “I don’t bug you about your personal life, do I? Make you tell me every little thing you and Adam get up to?”

Warlock flushed. “We don’t get up to anything.”

“Not the point. I’m entitled to my privacy just like you. I tell you things if I think it’s gonna affect you, or if I fucked up and owe you an explanation, but you don’t get to know everything.”

Slumping in his chair, Warlock looked defeated. “Does he even care about me, or does he just wanna talk to you?”

“Of course he cares about you. He had that whole cool-down pass thing figured out before we even met, remember? If we stopped...hanging out...tomorrow, he’d still call me every Friday to talk about you. He’s always cared about you and that’s not gonna change.”

Silence reigned again, but it was much less hostile this time.

“So...you _ are _ dating.”

“Jesus Christ, kid. No. We’re not dating.”

Warlock raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You gave him the angel mug.”

Crowley’s cheeks warmed. “Right, well. I mean. I _ told _ you I liked him. That’s not news. Wait, how do you know that?”

“It’s on his desk at school.”

“Oh.” Crowley didn’t know what to say to that.

“So...you like him, but you’re not dating? How come?”

“He’s your _ teacher _,” Crowley said patiently. “Always a little fishy, teachers getting cozy with students’ family members. Makes people think they can’t be objective anymore...that he couldn’t treat you like everyone else if he’s involved with me.”

“Oh.” Warlock thought about that. “Like, they might think he was giving you test answers or something.”

“Or not holding you to the same standards - you turn in a shitty essay that he grades at an A, or whatever.”

“That’s stupid. Nobody who ever met Mr. Fell would believe that.”

“They don’t have to believe it, they just have to _ say _ it.”

“So...is that it? Just that I’m in his class?”

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s more to it than that. I’m...I mean, I’m not sure he feels the same way. And if he doesn’t, and I make him uncomfortable…I just...look, there’s a lot riding on this and I don’t wanna fuck anything up.”

“Why don’t you just ask?” Warlock actually smirked a little. “Send him one of those checkbox notes.”

Crowley growled.

“Or have one of the other teachers ask him for you. That’s how Greasy Johnson got his girlfriend.”

“Shut up.”

“Maybe you could do the thing from that sappy Christmas movie you like. Y’know, with the signs?”

“Right, that’s it. You’re grounded for a month.”

Warlock smiled for the first time since he’d got home. “This is kinda cool. I didn’t know your face could turn that color.”

“_ Two _ months.”

“Whatever, Romeo.” Warlock rolled his eyes and stood. “I’ve got homework to do. You should go text your _ crush _. Make sure you use enough heart emojis.”

“_ Get out _.”

Warlock walked away, chuckling, and Crowley smiled in spite of himself. Cheeky bastard.

* * *

_ bad news, _ read Crowley’s text message. Aziraphale, who had been in the midst of tying his bow tie, frowned at his mobile. He didn’t much care for the thing, but since texting appeared to be Crowley’s main form of communication he was forced to admit it could have some use.

_ Oh? _ he replied.

_ jst called that restaurant u wanted to try they’re booked for the night can’t get us in _

Disappointment coursed through him. He had been looking forward to some decent Italian. _ I suppose we could go somewhere else _.

_ called a few other places no go _

_ got an idea tho _

_ I’m all ears. _ Or was it all eyes? Wouldn’t that be the proper expression here?

_ i mean i’m no gordon ramsay but i do cook now and then _

Aziraphale blinked at the screen, his pulse picking up. He couldn’t possibly mean...

_ could just eat here instead of standing on line for hours _

He did. Aziraphale’s mouth had gone quite suddenly dry. He stared at the screen until the words began to blur. His mind was buzzing. That was something friends did, wasn’t it? Had dinner at each other’s houses? Nothing untoward or suspicious about that at all. He’d been to dinner parties before - which, admittedly, usually (always) consisted of more than two people - and he hadn’t been suspected of romantic entanglement with any of them, so no one would think twice about his dining at Crowley’s, would they? It was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, who exactly was he trying to convince?

_ or not i dunno _

_ u ok? _

He’d been silent rather awhile, Aziraphale realized when his phone buzzed again with those messages. Tone was difficult to read in these circumstances, but he thought Crowley seemed nervous, which, oddly enough, calmed his own nerves.

_ Just fine. If it wouldn’t be any trouble, I think a night in sounds lovely. Should I bring anything? _

_ bottle of white if u got it _

He didn’t, but he’d pick up something on the way. He felt a little lightheaded as he responded. _ Certainly. _

_ 730 work for u _

_ Perfect. See you then. _

_ chow _

The wretched man _ knew _ the Italian spelling. He was being deliberately obtuse. Aziraphale chuckled in spite of himself and then turned to the much more important business of fretting. What to bring, what to wear, what to talk about, what _ not _ to talk about, tie or no tie, Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc or Riesling or Viognier or...Oh, this could go so _ terribly _ wrong...

Four hours later, standing in the corridor outside Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale was feeling a bit calmer and more secure. He knew the Sauvignon Blanc he’d chosen was first-rate, and he believed his decision to forego a bow tie was the right one - this was a casual dinner at someone’s home, after all - even if he did feel a bit exposed. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he knocked on the door.

“_ Shit! _”

Aziraphale blinked and reached for the doorknob in concern, but the next second the door was yanked open by an extremely flustered Crowley, his bright hair standing on end and his golden eyes wide and almost frantic. The sleeves of his black shirt were pushed up above his elbows, and over everything he wore a black apron covered in cream sauce. There was a smudge of the stuff on his right cheekbone, too, and Aziraphale thought he could smell something burning.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, clearly trying for nonchalant and failing utterly.

“Good evening, my dear,” Aziraphale said, stepping inside. “Is everything…”

“Fine, great, awesome. Take your coat?”

Aziraphale eyed Crowley’s outstretched hand, which was scarcely cleaner than the rest of him. “If you’ll just direct me to a closet, I can…”

“Right, ‘course, there on your left, I…” An ominous beeping sounded from the kitchen and Crowley was off again in a flash, shouting over his shoulder, “Make yourself comfortable, angel!”

After stowing his coat in the closet, Aziraphale turned his bottle of wine over in his hands. There was really no point in sitting by himself while he waited for Crowley to finish, so he followed in the path of his host, who could now be heard muttering threats at the pan on the stove.

“Shall I chill the wine?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley started and whirled around.

“Ah. Yeah. I don’t have an ice bucket or anything but there are bowls down there.” He gestured to a cupboard, and Aziraphale chose a metal bowl, filled it with ice water, and set the bottle in to chill. Glancing around the kitchen, he noticed a skillet coated in a thick brown substance resting in the sink - the source of the burnt smell, no doubt.

“Cream sauces are tricky,” Crowley muttered. “Turned away for just a _ minute _ to snap the asparagus and _ whoomph _, instant goop.”

“Well, you look as if you have things well in hand now,” Aziraphale said, stepping closer to look over his shoulder into the pan. “It smells simply divine, my dear.”

“Uh. Yeah. Um. Good.”

Aziraphale glanced up just in time to see Crowley look away, a flush high on his cheeks. “Your own spin on Italian, is it?” he asked, stepping back and cursing himself for overstepping.

“Tuscan, really.” Crowley raised the spoon to his lips to taste - his tongue darted out and flicked over his lips - and it was Aziraphale’s turn to blush. “Nearly there. Care to pour? Everything’s set in the dining room.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” Snatching up the bottle and the magnetic corkscrew he’d spotted on the refrigerator, Aziraphale retreated into the dining room. Goodness, the evening had scarcely begun and he was already a mess. He prayed to whomever might be listening that he would commit no further _ faux pas _.

He poured generous glassfuls and set the bottle on the table as Crowley entered, now without his apron and with his sleeves rolled down and buttoned. His hair was still a bit of a mess, which somehow added to his overall appeal, but he looked a good deal calmer.

“Sorry about the, uh, everything,” Crowley said, setting plates of chicken and roasted asparagus on the table. “Been a while since I made something this...erm...grown-up. Warlock would eat McDonald’s cheeseburgers everyday if I let him.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Everything looks scrumptious.”

Crowley made a strange noise, somewhere between a laugh and a croak, and sat, taking a long drink from his glass. “Well. _ Bon appetit _, I guess.”

* * *

Crowley had known from the moment he issued the invitation that this was a terrible idea. Every awful outcome imaginable had flitted through his brain, from giving Aziraphale food poisoning to burning down the flat before his friend even arrived. In his calmer moments he imagined simpler disasters, like previously undiscovered allergies or hair in the food. He’d been so preoccupied with all the ways he could fuck up that he hadn’t considered what would happen if everything went _ right _.

He had eaten dozens of dinners and lunches with Aziraphale, and it was by far one of his favourite past-times. Aziraphale did not eat food, he indulged in it. Savoured it. Damn near _ made love _ to every morsel of food that passed his lips. Fluttering eyelashes, deep breaths, soft sighs...despite Crowley’s very best intentions those sounds and expressions had featured frequently in his fantasies for months.

And now the man of his literal dreams was sat across from him, enthusiastically devouring a meal Crowley had made, stopping every now and then to reassure him that the chicken was _ perfectly cooked my dear, really, top notch _ , and relishing the crunch of the asparagus, and Crowley was _ losing his goddamn mind _ . Forget the theatre. _ This _ , right here, was hell. That soft little moan as Aziraphale bit into a tomato? Crowley made that happen. The expression of utter bliss as he savoured a piece of crusty bread soaked in cream sauce? Crowley’s handiwork. The sigh of satisfaction and thoroughly sated smile when his plate was clear? All thanks to Crowley. Besides the sounds, he was also being treated to a visual feast: Aziraphale without a bow tie, two of his top buttons undone, and Crowley could actually _ see _ the movements of his throat. Despite the fact that he quite liked this recipe, Crowley scarcely ate two bites; he merely watched Aziraphale and hung onto his wine glass for dear life.

“Well, that was _ wonderful _,” Aziraphale said at last, setting his fork and knife down and turning a beaming smile on Crowley. “I had no idea you were such a good cook.”

Blushing, Crowley tried to wave the compliment away and ended up sending his fork clattering off the table; he dived down after it and hoped the sudden motion would explain his red face. “Spent some time in kitchens before I opened the shop,” he said when he’d resurfaced. “I always kind of liked it, taking a bunch of unrelated things and making something better.”

“I see.” Aziraphale studied him with something akin to admiration, and Crowley hoped like hell that his own face would fucking _ stop _ its embarrassing bullshit already. “I never honed that particular skill, I’m afraid. I’ve a terrible takeaway habit.”

“That’s not always a bad thing. Less cleanup, for a start.” He rose then and began clearing the dishes, scarcely noticing that Aziraphale was following him.

“Oh, certainly. I admit, that is part of the appeal.” Aziraphale unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves, and Crowley nearly swallowed his tongue.

“Wha-what are you…”

“My dear boy, you didn’t really think I was going to leave you to clear up?” he asked, giving Crowley a stern look.

“It’s no big deal, I’ve got a dishwasher,” Crowley said, his gaze caught on shapely forearms and delicate wrists. “Takes five minutes, tops.”

“Oh, I’m sure between the two of us we can finish in half the time,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “Now, where do you want me, dear boy?”

About two dozen excruciatingly inappropriate responses sprang to mind, but Crowley wrestled his tongue under control and gestured to the countertops, and Aziraphale got to work with brisk efficiency. Crowley thanked everything sacred and profane that the kitchen was a decent size, and the amount of accidental contact was minimal. With everything cleared away, Aziraphale returned his sleeves to their proper state and Crowley could breathe a little more freely.

“Care for another drink?” Crowley asked as he led Aziraphale into the living room. “I’ve got a Balvenie I’ve been meaning to crack open.”

“Oh! Yes, that sounds...thank you, that would be lovely.”

Crowley waved Aziraphale into the living room and set about looking for the Scotch, and if he took a moment to lean against the countertop and tell himself to get a _ fucking _grip before he ruined the best friendship of his life, that was no one’s business but his own. Stuffing all of his stupid Feelings back into the center of his chest, he picked up the liquor and two tumblers and strolled into the living room, only to discover that his friend wasn’t there.

“Aziraphale?” he said, spinning in an awkward circle. “Are you here?”

“Back here.” Aziraphale’s head appeared at the end of the hall. “I was looking for a powder room and discovered your plants!”

_Powder room. Cripes_. “Oh. Uh.” Crowley set the Scotch and glasses on the coffee table and joined him. “Yeah, they’re…”

“They are simply gorgeous!” Aziraphale enthused, brushing one careful hand over a leaf. “How very talented you are!”

“‘Snot talent, angel,” Crowley said, wincing as he felt the Feelings squirming in response to Aziraphale’s praise. “Some fertilizer here, few spritzes of water there…anyone can learn to be a decent gardener.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “You consider yourself a _ decent _ gardener?”

“Nah, I’m the best, me. That’s not what I meant. It’s like anything else...the more you do it, the better you get.”

“Mmm. Well there may be truth in that,” Aziraphale shot him a sly sort of look, “but I’ve found that practice can only enhance genius, not create it.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley grumbled. “Did you want the Scotch or not?”

“What a ridiculous question, dear boy. Lead on.”

* * *

“Maybe you should have asked Crowley if I could come over.” Adam sounded nervous as they rode up in the elevator.

“When he found out your mom said I was welcome whenever, he said the same thing.” Warlock nudged him. “Are you nervous?”

“No! Maybe. I just - we haven’t been here since…”

“Wait. Are you _ scared _ of Uncle AJ?”

Adam spluttered for a bit. “N-b-I-I mean...not really?” When Warlock raised his eyebrows, Adam turned a little red. “I mean, you gotta admit he looks a little...he’s always wearing those sunglasses, and all that black and I’ve never even seen him smile and…”

“Yeah, he thinks he’s a total badass,” Warlock rolled his eyes. “He’s _ not _, though. Seriously. He’s a total nerd.”

Adam looked at him skeptically, but the elevator door had opened and they stepped into the hall.

“I swear, it’s fine,” Warlock said. “He’ll probably just be annoyed that we already ate and he won’t be able to feed us.” He pushed the door open and led his friend inside, stopping in his tracks at the sound of voices. _ Plural _.

“Who’s that?” Adam asked.

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Warlock dropped his backpack on the floor and strolled into the living room, Adam so close on his heels that he collided with Warlock’s back when he stopped.

Uncle AJ was sprawled across the sofa like a cross between a snake and a starfish, a glass of some kind of alcohol in one hand, grinning at Mr. Fell who - prim and proper and the prince of perfect posture - was almost _ slumped _ in the armchair. And _ giggling _ . At something _ Uncle AJ _ had said, apparently. They were staring at each other so hard that Warlock started to feel embarrassed, like he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see. He actually had to clear his throat for them to realize that the number of people in the room had just doubled.

The way Uncle AJ nearly jumped out of his skin and spilled his drink all over the carpet was almost worth the embarrassment, though. So was Mr. Fell’s face turning so red that he might actually start glowing.

“Kid!” Uncle AJ croaked, sitting up straighter. “I, uh...what are you doing here? I thought you were at Brian’s.”

“He got food poisoning,” Warlock said. “We thought we’d come here to hang out. We didn’t know you were…” He paused just long enough to make his uncle squirm a little. “_ Busy _.”

“Oh, we’re not,” Mr. Fell said, smooth as butter now that his face didn’t look like a tomato anymore. “Hello, boys. It’s nice to see you.”

Warlock raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Sure.” He looked at his uncle. “We’re gonna make some cocoa, and then we’ll hang in my room. Don’t wanna get in your way.” He paused again. “Unless you want us to leave?”

Uncle AJ glared at him so hard Warlock thought he felt his eyebrows start to smoke. “No. You’re fine. Hey, Adam.”

Adam made some sort of squeaking noise, and Warlock turned to see that he was still staring open-mouthed at the adults. Taking his hand, Warlock started tugging him toward the kitchen. “Okay. We’ll see you around. Bye, Mr. Fell.”

“Good night, boys,” Mr. Fell said. He was smiling, but Warlock could feel the discomfort coming off him in waves.

Adam stood perfectly still and quiet in the kitchen while Warlock made cocoa, but when they were in his room, safely behind the closed door, he seemed to reboot.

“Ohmygod,” he said breathlessly. “Ohmy_ god _. They were...and he was...did you see…”

“See them staring at each other like idiots? Yeah.” Warlock sighed and sat on his bed. “‘I’m NoT sUrE hE fEeLs ThE sAmE wAy!’ My ass.”

“You said he liked him but holy _ shit _!”

“What’s he doing here though? They never hang out here.”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to be here, remember? Oh, fuck.” Adam’s face went a scary whitish-green. “Did we just _ cockblock your uncle _?”

Cocoa shot out of Warlock’s nose. “_ Dude! Gross! _” he gasped when he was finished choking.

“I’m just saying. You weren’t supposed to be here, Fell comes over, they have dinner and wine and drinks and…”

“Shut _ up! _” Warlock gripped his hair with both hands. “No, that’s not...he wouldn’t. Not now. No way.”

“But…”

“Not while I’m in Fell’s class. That’s what he said. Something about fairness.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” Adam’s colour began returning to normal. “So this probably wasn’t anything...like that.”

“No, but I should probably get used to the idea,” Warlock sighed, using a tissue to wipe up the cocoa mess his nose had made. “I mean, at this rate, as soon as school ends they’ll be getting married.”

They were quiet for a little while, sipping their cocoa thoughtfully.

“Would that be...a bad thing?” Adam asked eventually.

“What?”

“Crowley marrying Mr. Fell.”

Warlock shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, marriage is kind of bullshit, but if they want to, whatever.” Adam was silent for a few minutes and Warlock looked over to discover that he was frowning. “What?”

“Do you really think that?” Adam asked, staring into his cocoa. “That marriage is bullshit.”

“Well, I mean. Yeah. It doesn’t really mean anything. People cheat anyway, and they treat each other like shit, and…”

“Not always,” Adam said quietly. “My parents don’t. Neither do Brian’s or Wensley’s.”

That stumped him a little. “I know. I just...they’re not nice to each other because they got married. They’d still be that way if they weren’t.”

“I guess that’s true.” Adam looked sad. “But the cheaters and...and the other stuff...they don’t do those things because they’re married either.”

“I - I know that. It just. It seems like a lot of work for something that doesn’t really _ matter _.”

“I think maybe it does matter.” Adam set his mug down. “To some people anyway. Like, maybe they like calling each other husband and wife, y’know?”

“Those are just words, though. Labels. You can just say them.”

“And labels don’t matter to you.” Adam gave him a small smile. “You’re such a cliche, emo boy.”

“I didn’t say that, and I’m _ not _ emo.”

“Sure, with the long hair and the eyeliner and the headphones permanently glued to your ears. Totally not emo at all.”

“Shut up.”

They stared at his TV in silence for a little while. It was repeating a trailer for some Netflix movie, and neither of them knew what to watch. Warlock was about to suggest they just listen to music when Adam said,

“So. Labels.”

“They’re okay, I guess. Depends on the label.”

“So, like, if someone asked who you were, and I said you were my. Uh. Boyfriend, you’d be okay with that?”

Warlock suddenly couldn’t breathe. What was air, again?

“It’s just. We’ve been talking for awhile and I thought. We don’t have to if you…”

“It’s fine.” The words punched out of him like an alien through an astronaut’s chest. “Good. That’s...that’d be good. Great.”

Adam gave him a shy smile, one he recognized from way back in December when they’d agreed to go on their first date. “Cool.”

Warlock smiled back, his heart racing as Adam sneaked his hand across the bedspread and twined their fingers together. Their eyes caught and held, and when Adam leaned a little closer, Warlock concentrated very hard on keeping his cool. He’d brushed his teeth recently, right?

There was a knock on the door, and both boys jumped away from each other as if they’d been shocked.

“_ What? _” Warlock had tried for outraged, but his voice was a little too breathy to be convincing.

Uncle AJ’s head poked around the edge of the door. “Hey, I’m putting out some cheese and crackers, you boys want some?”

“_ No _,” Warlock growled.

“You sure? It’s good stuff.”

“We’re _ fine _.”

“We’ve also got olives.”

“I should probably get home anyway,” Adam said, cutting Warlock off before he could say something unforgivable. “I’ll just text my mom. Wanna come out and wait for her with me?”

“Sure.” Warlock stood, still glaring at his uncle, and followed his friend - no, his _ boyfriend _ \- out of the room. He tried not to notice Mr. Fell puttering around the kitchen, and focused on Adam’s hand in his as they walked through the apartment and stood close in the lift.

Once they were outside, Adam looked around and then grinned. “C’mon,” he said, tugging on Warlock’s hand, and Warlock followed him a little way away from the front of building and into a little alley.

“What are you…?”

“Well, I mean. We got interrupted.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you don’t…”

How many times were they going to do this? Warlock stepped forward - he was so glad they were the same height - and pressed their lips together. Adam made a little _ mmph _ sound, which made sense because he’d still been talking, but he relaxed pretty quickly. When Warlock pulled back, they were both smiling.

“When’s your mom getting here?” Warlock asked.

Adam looked at his phone and grinned a little wickedly. “Oh, whaddya know. I forgot to text her. Should probably do that now.” He did so, then put his phone away and leaned against the brick wall behind him. “She’ll be a few minutes. What should we do while we wait?”

Warlock rolled his eyes and pulled him close again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expected this to be a lot angstier but honestly...Crowley and Warlock have gotten so much better at communication that the big fights I originally had planned just...couldn't happen.
> 
> That being said, God, this chapter is a mess. Like, what is even going on with the constant POV shifts? I don't know, but I know I rewrote this damn thing like six times and it's as good as it's gonna get at this point.
> 
> I do like the ending, though.


	12. The Most Difficult Lesson in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley faces the mortifying truth that his nephew is better equipped to handle romantic developments than he is.  
Also, Aziraphale has a surprise visitor.

By the time Warlock made it back to the apartment, Mr. Fell was accepting his coat from Uncle AJ.

“Thank you for dinner,” he said, his smile wide and bright. 

“Not a problem. Glad I didn’t poison you or anything.” Uncle AJ was grinning too, and  _ ugh _ could they  _ stop  _ with the heart eyes already?

“Yeah, you were lucky,” Warlock said. “He made this goulash stuff once - tasted like dog food.”

“And you’d know that how?” his uncle asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine. It tasted like dog food  _ smells _ .”

Mr. Fell looked like he was trying not to laugh. “There are some who enjoy the smell of dog food.”

“Then he can feed it to them.”

Uncle AJ rolled his eyes and Mr. Fell shrugged into his coat. “I really should be going. Have a lovely evening, both of you.”

When he was gone, Warlock looked at his uncle and watched as his face went red. “What?” Uncle AJ asked, crossing his arms.

“Nothing. You could have put a sock on the doorknob or something.”

“W-b-g-that’s...we weren’t...”

“I’m just kidding.” Warlock rolled his eyes and brushed past his still stammering uncle. “But I’m glad I’m not usually around when you guys are hanging out. You’re pretty gross.”

“ _ Gross _ ?”

“With the laughing and the smiling and the  _ looking _ .” Warlock grabbed a cracker from the tray on the coffee table. “It was like a Hallmark movie in here.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Uncle AJ sputtered. “Did you and Adam have your hands surgically grafted together or something?”

Warlock shrugged and tried not to smile or blush. “He  _ is _ my boyfriend.” Nah, it wasn’t working. He could feel his face getting redder and his mouth stretching without his permission.

“Your...boyfriend?” Everything about his uncle changed suddenly, like he’d been held tight by invisible strings and someone had cut them. “It’s official now, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Wow. That’s great, kid.” Uncle AJ sat on the couch, looking proud but also a little confused. Warlock understood. He felt the same way. “For what it’s worth, I think Adam seems like a good guy. Good first boyfriend material. He...is the first, right?”

“Duh.”

“Right. So...any, like. Questions? I mean, keeping in mind that I haven’t been in any kind of relationship since the turn of the millennium.”

“Not really.” Warlock considered a second cracker and thought about the kisses. He wasn’t sure he wanted to share that part just yet - hadn’t Uncle AJ said that some things were nice to keep secret for a while? “Not right now. Maybe later.”

“Okay. So.” Uncle AJ rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, this is awkward as fuck, but...I want you to be safe, so…we should probably talk about...”

Warlock felt himself turning red. “Do we really have to?”

“Yeah, think so. Just...let me get this out, okay?”

His face burning, Warlock stared at the carpet and waited.

“So. First of all,  _ if _ you guys decide you want to. Y’know. Anything, really. You need to make sure you both want...whatever it is. Nobody should pressure anyone, is what I’m saying. You don’t have anything to prove, there’s no test. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“The other thing is. Um. Protection. I mean obviously there’s no...neither of you can get...but...there’s other reasons obviously and…”

“I _ know _ .”

“And, like, if you need something and don’t know how to get it you should let me know. I know,” he said hastily as Warlock sank into a humiliated heap on the couch, “I know that’s the last thing you want, but it’s better to die of embarrassment than...something else.”

Christ on a cracker,  _ please _ let this be over soon.

“I think. I think that’s it.” Uncle AJ cleared his throat. “Any, uh…”

“ _ No _ .”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna…”

“Yeah, sure. Night, kid.”

* * *

So. His nephew had a love life. And a boyfriend. And unless Crowley’s instincts were totally off, he’d had his first kiss too. Probably more than one.

Which was great. Wonderful. Tickety-boo, as Aziraphale would say. He was thrilled for the boys, really. Not jealous at all, either.

Well. Maybe a little jealous. Must be nice, to know for sure that the bloke you fancy fancies you back, to be able to just go on dates with him and hold his hand and kiss him whenever the urge strikes.

Must be pretty fucking incredible, actually.

Crowley flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing he were less of a selfish, miserable arsehole. He had an awesome nephew and an amazing best friend, both of whom seemed to like him a lot more than he deserved. What was wrong with him that he wasn’t satisfied? He  _ should _ be satisfied, especially with Aziraphale’s friendship, considering the whole damn thing had been his idea.

What had he thought, that being friends with the guy would magically turn any romantic feelings into platonic ones? That if he said the words “We’re just friends” often enough he would stop wanting more? Only a self-sabotaging idiot looked at a hopeless crush and thought “I know what let’s do, let’s spend  _ even more time _ with this gorgeous, perfect bastard. That’ll nip any Feelings right in the bud.”

He was such a moron.

But fuck it. He was locked in now, wasn’t he? Couldn’t very well just  _ stop seeing _ the love of his goddamn life. Maybe in a few years he would actually work up the nerve to  _ do _ something. Assuming some tall dark and handsome arsehole with less family drama and more courage didn’t show up in the meantime and…

Okay, he was getting downright maudlin now.

He rolled over so that his face was buried in his pillow and allowed his mind to drift to pleasanter things: Aziraphale’s admiring gaze and enthusiastic praise, his sighs of pleasure and hums of delight. With just a little effort, he could imagine all of those things in a very different context.

_ “Oh, that’s  _ ** _wonderful_ ** _ , my dear.” Aziraphale sighed and Crowley grinned against his neck. _

_ “That all you got, angel? You said nicer things about the asparagus.” _

_ “You brilliant, talented thing. Words can’t describe…” he cut off on a gasp as Crowley slid down his body, sampling every inch of skin on the way. _

_ “Won’t stop you from trying, though, will it?” When Aziraphale only whimpered in response, Crowley pulled back. “Will it?” _

_ “Crowley,  _ ** _please_ ** _ …” _

_ “Oh, I like that. Keep that up, angel.” _

_ “Please, darling, you’re too good, too kind to leave me wanting.” He swallowed hard as Crowley nuzzled the length of him. “My precious, wonderful…” He cut off again at the feel of Crowley’s mouth, and... _

In the real world, Crowley gasped and his hips, which had been shifting against the blankets, shuddered into a very sudden, very unexpected finish.

Well. That was embarrassing. If he ever made it that far with the real Aziraphale, he hoped he’d have a  _ smidge _ more lasting power, though if real!Aziraphale was as chatty as dream!Aziraphale he kind of doubted it.

His head was a little clearer now, at least, and as he cleaned himself up and then curled up to sleep, he allowed himself a small smile. Desperate pining aside, Aziraphale’s friendship was the most meaningful of his life, and nothing was worth throwing that way. He could keep these feelings in check. He’d done a stellar job so far, hadn’t he?

* * *

One night a month into the second semester, Aziraphale had just settled into his favourite armchair when there was a knock on his door. Frowning, he rose and peered cautiously through the peephole. The next moment he’d hurriedly unlocked the door, swinging it open to reveal Gabriel Clark.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale said. “This is a surprise. Are you quite well, Gabriel?”

“No,” Gabriel said wearily. “I’m not. May I come in?”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale stepped back, and Gabriel smiled wanly as he entered. He simply stood there, looking slightly dazed, even after Aziraphale had shut and locked the door. “Tea?” Aziraphale asked, at a loss.

“No thanks.”

“Well...I suppose you should have a seat.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” Gabriel sank into a chair, and Aziraphale sat across, watching him in confusion. For several moments they sat in silence, and Aziraphale was on the point of offering something a bit stronger than tea when Gabriel blinked and seemed to come out of a trance. “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have barged in on you like this, but I - I needed to…” He sighed deeply. “There was a hearing today. For Shadwell.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You shouldn’t…”

“I know, I know. But this isn’t about him, not really.” Gabriel scrubbed one hand down his face. “The statements I got during this investigation...you wouldn’t believe some of them, Aziraphale. Or I guess maybe  _ you _ would, you’ve had Shadwell’s number from the beginning, but I…I had  _ no  _ idea.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow before he could stop himself, and Gabriel saw.

“No, you’re right. I  _ did _ have an idea. Or a suspicion or an inkling or... _ something _ . He’s many things, but he’s not subtle.” Gabriel propped his elbows on his knees and stared into the middle distance. “The worst part of all of this for me is that this was the first I’d heard of some of these things. He sent girls to the office for dress code violations but no one ever complained about him telling them they looked like jezebels and harlots. No one ever said anything...until you and the Dowling kid. Why didn’t they  _ say _ anything?”

“Because Shadwell was in a position of power, and they had never seen you hold him accountable,” Aziraphale said, not too gently.

“I’m reading all this stuff and talking to these kids and...all I could think about was that quote from  _ Remember the Titans. _ You know the one?”

As Aziraphale had never in his life voluntarily watched a film that featured athletic teams, he did not in fact know. He nodded anyway.

“‘Attitude reflects leadership.’ What in the hell kind of leader am I to let this kind of thing happen right under my nose?” Gabriel leaned back in his chair again, rubbing the bridge of said nose. “And then I think that - that he probably thought I agreed with him, that I had his back, because I just…” He sighed. “I don’t know what to do now.” When he saw Aziraphale’s expression, he said quickly, “Not about Shadwell, he’s history. About  _ me _ .”

“Ah.” Aziraphale studied him. “What exactly is it that you want from me?”

“I want to know how you do it,” Gabriel said. “How do you look at a borderline delinquent like Warlock Dowling and figure out what makes him tick? How do you get a douchebag like Greasy Johnson to act like a decent human being?”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw. “You’ve taken the same classes I have, Gabriel. You know everything I know about empathy and de-escalation and windows of tolerance. You’ve designed entire days of professional development about classroom management and making connections with students. You just need to put that knowledge into  _ practice _ . And you ought to start,” he felt his voice rise despite himself, “by  _ not  _ referring to your students as delinquents and douchebags. Good heavens, man, what is the matter with you?”

Gabriel blinked at him. “I just - I prefer to be honest about…”

“About your prejudices, yes, you’ve made that quite clear.” Aziraphale shook his head and stood to pace the room. “You look at Warlock Dowling and see a delinquent because he can’t always control his anger. Did it ever occur to you to think about what he’s suffered? Treated like a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be got rid of, essentially thrown out of his family, and sent to live in a strange country with an uncle he scarcely saw before then? Did you ever stop to consider, for one moment, what that must do to a child’s self-esteem and sense of security?”

“I…”

“And as for Gregory Johnson, he does have a tendency to be a bully. I can’t deny that. But he is a  _ boy _ , and boys can learn. Did you know that he raises tropical fish and has hopes of entering them in competitions some day? That he dreams of striking out on his own as soon as he can, and getting away from that overbearing father of his?”

“How do you know this stuff?” Gabriel cut in.

“For Heaven’s sake! I  _ talk _ to them, Gabriel. I  _ listen _ to them. The children most in need of our care are the ones least likely to reach out for it, so you must take the initiative. And please,” Aziraphale said wearily, “consider your options carefully when hiring Shadwell’s replacement. I don’t suppose you’ve considered the fact that  _ I _ could have brought Shadwell up on harassment charges multiple times the last few years.”

“Wha-oh. Because of the, uh…”

“Vicious homophobia, yes,” Aziraphale said dryly.

Gabriel squirmed a little. “I did try to rein him in.”

“No, you tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, and every time you cut him off and ended a meeting early rather than reprimand him, you made him think that you agreed with him but couldn’t say so aloud.”

“Shit.” Gabriel went very pale. “Okay. Talk to kids. Keep staff from being assholes. Sounds simple when I put it like that, but....”

“You’ve been fortunate enough to hire some excellent teachers, Shadwell notwithstanding,” Aziraphale said. “They have good instincts, and they’re merely waiting for your guidance. As for the students - that will take a bit longer. They’re wary of you, and many of them won’t trust in your good intentions right away. You’ll need to be  _ patient _ .”

“I’m not great at patience.”

“I’ve noticed, but, like any skill, it can be honed.”

“Right.” Gabriel stared at his shoes; after a few moments he shook his head and stood. “Thanks, Aziraphale. I appreciate...all of this. I’m sorry for interrupting your evening.”

“Apology accepted.”

Gabriel nodded and made for the door, but stopped with one hand on the knob. “I should tell you I got an email the other day from Michael Hall about Hayden’s final grade last semester. You can probably guess what he said.” Aziraphale nodded. “I reminded Mike that plenty of student athletes study their asses off to avoid the eligibility list, and Hayden has the same opportunities as everyone else and that - that I trust you to treat all students equitably. You shouldn’t hear from him again.”

Warmth spread through Aziraphale’s chest and he smiled for the first time all evening. “Oh. Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary, it’s my job,” Gabriel said uncomfortably. “If you  _ do _ hear from him, let me know. Anyway, like I said. I’ll leave you to it.”

When he was gone, Aziraphale sank wearily back into his chair and took out his phone to stare at it and contemplate whether he ought to call Crowley. He knew that he  _ wanted _ to, but how much of the conversation ought he to repeat? He was still feeling a little giddy at the prospect of never seeing Shadwell again. It  _ would _ mean a great deal to both Crowley and Warlock to know that Shadwell was gone, wouldn’t it? Warlock especially had suffered so much at the coach’s hands; surely he deserved to know how it had all ended.

Resolutely Aziraphale dialed Crowley’s number and waited.

“‘Lo?”

“Hello, Crowley.”

“‘Ziraphale? You okay? ‘Sthematter?”

“Nothing at all. Why would something be the matter?”

There was a sleepy sort of groan on the other end of the line. “Angel, it’s bloody eleven o’clock.”

“Were you asleep?”

“N-y-n...yeah. We’re early birds ‘round here, ‘member?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale felt his face flood with colour. “I can call back tomorrow.”

“Forget it, awake now.” Crowley yawned and Aziraphale heard rustling and was suddenly, inescapably inundated with visions of Crowley mussed and sleepy-eyed, curled up in soft blankets and - would he be wearing sleepwear of some kind? Or he was he the type to sleep only in his underwear or...or in even less? “Angel? You there?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale squeaked, shoving the image of a bare-chested, silk-boxer-clad Crowley back into the darkest recesses of his imagination. “Terribly sorry, um...got distracted for a moment.”

“Right. So what’s so important that you had to interrupt my beauty sleep?”

“I had a visitor tonight. Gabriel came by.”

There was a longish pause. “Gabriel? The principal? That’s...unexpected. What, uh. What did he want?”

“Professional advice, mainly, but he said something that I knew would be of interest to you.” When Crowley’s grunt betrayed mild curiosity, Aziraphale smiled. “He said that Coach Shadwell was terminated after a hearing today.”

“Terminated? You mean sacked?”

“Yes.”

“Not...not, like, asked to resign or something? Really properly sacked?”

“So it would seem.”

“Wow.” Crowley sounded stunned. “So...that’s it, huh? Are you - are you allowed to tell me this?”

“To be completely honest, I probably shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale admitted, “but...you  _ are _ my friend, and the two of you have been through so much. I suppose I just wanted to give you some good news.”

“That arsehole being gone is definitely good news for us. Too bad he can just go fuck up somebody else’s kids.”

“I doubt that will happen - most schools research applicants’ backgrounds pretty thoroughly. A call to Gabriel should be enough to nip any employment offers in the bud.”

“Right, well. That’s good.” There was another pause. “Professional advice?”

“Hm?”

“You said Clark was there asking for professional advice.”

“Yes.”

“Guess he couldn’t go to anyone better.”

Despite the fact that they couldn’t see each other, Aziraphale blushed. “You flatter me.”

“Nah, it’s the truth.” Crowley huffed out a breath. “Thank you, Aziraphale. Seriously. For everything.”

“I really didn’t...”

“Shut up, you know you did. You made Warlock feel safe. Like he’s worth something. He actually talks about stuff now, real stuff, and he doesn’t spend all his time moping in his room. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he does spend _a lot_ _of time_ moping in his room, but at least I don’t go days without seeing him now.”

“Crowley. You know you have done wonders with him…”

“Sure, because you told me how. Face it, angel. You’re getting all the credit for this and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Oh, really.” Aziraphale huffed. “If every parent I’ve ever counselled took my advice as much to heart as you have, our counselors would be out of a job. Your love and support has meant more to Warlock than anything I could offer, and well you know it, Crowley.”

There was another brief stretch of silence on the line, and after a moment Crowley cleared his throat. “Anyway. We should celebrate, yeah? The end of a horrible era?”

Aziraphale made a face. “How about the beginning of a new one? I would hate to sit about thinking of  _ Shadwell _ all night.”

“Eurgh, yeah. Okay. There’s a creperie not too far from my place. Meet there tomorrow night, ‘round seven?”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Great. See you then, angel.”

“Pleasant dreams, my dear.”

They rang off, and Aziraphale settled back in his chair, his blood humming pleasantly with anticipation. Crowley and crepes - a truly heavenly combination. Probably drinks afterward, and hours of conversation, followed by a reluctant parting of ways, on his end at least. But he didn’t think he was flattering himself too much by thinking that the feeling was mutual. Crowley wasn’t a very demonstrative person, but sometimes when he looked at Aziraphale he’d quirk his mouth just so in a not-quite-smile that could only be described as  _ affectionate _ , and when that was combined with the occasional soft twinkle of his eyes, Aziraphale felt certain there was  _ something _ there that was more than friendship.  He did things, too, kindnesses like opening doors, and carrying parcels, and ordering desserts he didn’t eat, and buying tickets to shows he didn’t want to see. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Aziraphale would say. “Wanted to,” Crowley would reply. And then he would turn away or change the subject or toss an entire handful of birdseed at a single duck just to cause a commotion, and Aziraphale would know that was the end of the conversation.

Yes, Aziraphale was fairly certain he wasn’t alone in this. Their situation required more discretion than he might like, but there was a certain bittersweet pleasure in restraining themselves, in holding back until they could be together unreservedly, and Aziraphale was rather enjoying the suspense.  He picked up his book again, but he had some difficulty focusing on it. His brain kept jumping back to that very  _ pressing  _ question of what exactly Crowley wore to bed. 

Eventually the book found itself abandoned on the side table, unfinished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So finally we get something worthy of the Mature rating. Poor Crowley.
> 
> I really struggled with including Gabriel's visit. I've had it written for weeks and I kept debating with myself over whether I should include it. But I thought we all deserved some closure on the Shadwell thing; plus, I don't like to have more than one irredeemable asshole in my cast and I would like Gabriel to suck just a little bit less. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this.


	13. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley celebrate their new Shadwell-free lives.
> 
> Things don't really go as they expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't said it yet, but thank you so much for the amazing response to this story. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this journey as much as a I am!
> 
> WARNING: There's quite a bit of nastiness in this chapter from a certain character we all thought we were rid of. Disgusting, baseless accusations because this character is the literal worst ever. It's about halfway through and you'll see it coming, but please don't read that part if it's going to hurt you.

The crepes were  _ scrumptious _ . Aziraphale gently scooped up the last bit of chocolate sauce with the final piece of pastry and savoured it carefully. He looked across at Crowley, who was watching his espresso as if he expected it to reveal the secrets of the universe.

“What did you think, my dear?” he asked.

Crowley looked up - at least, his head moved. Aziraphale could only guess that his eyes followed suit, as he was once again wearing his stylish sunglasses.

“Not bad. ‘mnot much for sweets, but the espresso’s good.” He shrugged and sat back in his chair in that sprawling way of his that seemed to defy the limitations of human joints.

“You should have said you didn’t care for crepes,” Aziraphale said, feeling a little wrongfooted. “We could have gone somewhere else.”

“ _ You  _ like crepes.”

“Yes, of course, but…”

“Good enough for me, then.”

“Oh, really,” Aziraphale huffed. “Surely we can find something we  _ both _ enjoy.”

He saw his friend swallow before sitting up a bit. “Fine. How about that pub a few blocks over?”

Aziraphale smiled. “That sounds lovely.” 

They wandered out onto the pavement, and Aziraphale noted with satisfaction that his friend was actually dressed appropriately for the end of January in New York. Sleekly and stylishly, yes, but his coat looked warm and his hands were, for once, covered with insulated gloves. They’d gone about a block when Aziraphale stopped; Crowley had walked forward a few paces before he noticed that his friend was no longer beside him.

“Oi, angel, what...oh.”

“I - I know I  _ just _ insisted that we do something we both enjoy,” Aziraphale said apologetically, “but would you mind  _ terribly _ if…”

“No, of course not,” Crowley smirked. “Let’s go, I know better than to stand between you and a used bookshop.”

“Thank you, my dear,  _ really _ ,” Aziraphale said as they entered. “I won’t be a moment.”

Crowley gave a disbelieving snort, which Aziraphale magnanimously ignored, and wandered off to find an armchair in which to collapse. When Aziraphale turned to peruse the shelves, he saw a young woman watching him with a thoughtful smile.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Hi. Need any help finding anything?”

“Not at the moment, thank you.” Aziraphale looked over the well-kept shelves and noticed that several of the books looked to be in excellent condition. With a smile he moved deeper into the shop, plucking down a volume now and then to admire it. After a few moments he had a few books tucked in the crook of his arm and had just turned a corner into what looked like the poetry section when he heard Crowley’s voice.

“Nah, I’m good thanks.”

“Thought so.” The other voice was female. “I saw you come in with that other guy. You remind me of me and  _ my _ husband, he just sits around playing on his phone while I look at books.”

“Erm.”

“It’s nice, though. I don’t mind. I just like that he’s  _ there _ , y’know?”

“Right.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

Aziraphale ducked back a little between the shelves. This was not the first time the two of them had been mistaken for a couple (in fact, he still often thought about that moment at the theatre when Crowley had deliberately given Jack Wallace the impression that they were romantically involved, not to mention the absolutely  _ delightful _ sensation of Crowley’s arm around his shoulders), but one of them usually set the stranger straight. For Crowley not to correct her...Aziraphale took another lap around the religious section to give his face the chance to resume its accustomed colour. When he finally emerged at the front desk, he saw that Crowley had moved to an armchair near the front door and was staring out the window.

“All set?” The young woman beamed at him as he placed his selections on the counter. He smiled in response, and felt rather than saw Crowley rise and join him.

“Only four?” Crowley asked. “You feeling alright?”

Aziraphale gave him what he hoped was a properly withering look and focused on his transaction, which was difficult, as the young woman was giggling. “Oh, please don’t encourage him,” Aziraphale said with a sigh.

“No really, we’ve only been here about fifteen minutes. You could be running a temperature.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale felt his lips quirk up. “You are impossible.”

“Impossibly hilarious, you mean.”

“Oh, my god, you are the best,” the cashier laughed. She placed his purchases in a paper bag and handed it to him. “Have a wonderful night!”

“Hear that, angel?” Crowley teased as they left. “I’m the best.”

“The best at being a nuisance, perhaps.”

Crowley laughed. “Not gonna argue with that. I work hard at my nuisancing. Nuisament. Nuisation?”

“Nuisancy, you ridiculous man.”

“You sure? Maybe it’s  _ nuisanceness _ .”

Aziraphale huffed and rolled his eyes as Crowley chuckled to himself. They found the pub and Crowley held the door with a courtly sweep of his arm, causing Aziraphale’s face to go a bit pink again. Thankfully, the dim lighting of the pub hid his blush and he settled into a booth as Crowley got the first round - happily, they had a decent wine selection.

“So what’d you get?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “You want to talk about the books I bought?”

“I mean. Not a full review or anything but...sure.”

“To be honest, few of them are that rare or old,” Aziraphale admitted. “Only a few biographies I’ve been meaning to read, and an illustrated natural history from the 1880s.”

“That sounds pretty old.”

“Yes, but it’s in rather indifferent condition. It requires a bit of love and care.” Aziraphale pulled the book out and handed it gingerly across the table, and Crowley took it.

“Nobody better to give it. The cover’s cool,” he said. Carefully he opened the book at random and studied a page. “This is...kind of brilliant, really. This was someone’s job, drawing pictures of plants and animals?”

“Yes. They weren’t always the most accurate representations, but the artistry is undeniable.”

Crowley hummed and turned the page, and Aziraphale settled back in his seat and took the opportunity to study his friend’s serious, thoughtful face. He really was breathtakingly handsome, with his sharp features and perfectly coiffed dark red hair. His black wardrobe and stylish sunglasses gave him a vaguely sinister air, but Aziraphale now knew that intimidating exterior concealed a generous soul and a sweet, tender heart, and Aziraphale was profoundly thankful to whatever forces had been at work to ensure that they met.

After a few more moments Crowley closed the book and slid it back to him. “Can I see it again when you’ve restored it?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale replaced the book in the bag. “Another round, my dear?”

“Sure. Same again for me.”

Aziraphale made his way to the bar, which had become very crowded. There were a few different basketball games being broadcast on the television screens throughout the building, and several of the middle-aged patrons seemed rather overly invested in the outcomes. There was a great deal of shouting, and Aziraphale worried he might not be able to make himself heard by the young man behind the bar. He waited patiently, however, until a spot opened up; he gave his order and then, just as he turned, drinks in hand, he found himself shoved rather harshly back into the bar. One of the glasses tumbled from his hand and shattered on the floor, and the person who had pushed him turned to glare at him. Aziraphale, who had been prepared to deliver a stern lecture on personal boundaries and the importance of respecting them, froze on the spot.

“ _ You! _ ”

Coach Shadwell’s face, always a bit on the red side, was rapidly turning purple, and Aziraphale wondered wildly if he was in danger of a coronary.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shadwell growled, stepping closer and effectively closing him in.

“I  _ was _ getting a drink,” Aziraphale said. “How. Er. How have you been?”

“How’ve I been? How’ve I  _ been _ ?” Shadwell shoved a finger in his face. “I lost my fucking  _ job _ because of you...you and that Crowley asshole!”

“You know very well that decision was out of my hands,” Aziraphale said, keeping his voice level with some difficulty.

“You’ve had it out for me for years,” Shadwell growled, “just because I don’t want you shoving your agenda down our throats. At least they’re gonna have proof soon - look what you did to Adam Young!”

Aziraphale felt light-headed. “Wha - what…”

“Star player on the freshman team, real potential, then one semester in your class and he’s gay as a three dollar bill making goo-goo eyes at the Dowling freak. That’s what you want, right? Turn ‘em all gay so there’s nobody left to fight back!”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale sighed. Turning, he set his wine glass on the bar and then sent an apologetic glance at Crowley, who had stood from their booth and was trying to make his way over to them. The crowd was too thick and unruly, though, and Aziraphale squared his shoulders. “Shadwell,” he said sternly, “I have heard quite enough out of you. You lost your job because you are unfit to educate young people and someone finally realized it. Adam Young and Warlock Dowling are brave, intelligent, sensitive young men, and they needed no prompting from me to recognize each other’s excellence.”

“I’ll just bet they didn’t. I bet you and that uncle of his are giving ‘em lessons, aren’t ya?”

Aziraphale did not, in general, consider physical violence the solution to any problem, but in that moment his vision went red, and in a sudden movement he reached up to clutch Shadwell’s shirt and drag him down the few inches to bring them nose to nose. “If you ever make such filthy accusations again…”

He was interrupted by a loud ringing and flashing of white lights; for a split second every person in the pub went silent, and then there was a roar of outrage as they all began to herd toward the exits. The tide of bodies pulled Shadwell away from Aziraphale, and he looked around vainly for Crowley.

“Right here, angel, c’mon.” His friend had appeared at his side, his eyes wide and wild behind his glasses. He grasped Aziraphale’s elbow and began steering him through the crowd, outright pushing him a few times. He didn’t stop once they were outside the doors, but slid his hand down to grasp Aziraphale’s and took off at a very brisk pace down the street, glancing over his shoulder now and then.

When they were a few blocks away, Crowley ducked into an alley, dropped Aziraphale’s hand, and leaned against the wall. “Whoo,” he said, breathing a mite more heavily than usual. “That was a thing.”

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked, poking his head out of the alley and looking back the way they had come. He could see the flashing lights of the police and fire departments. “Was something burning in the kitchen?”

“What? No, there was no fire,” Crowley said. “I opened the emergency exit door.”

Aziraphale turned to stare at him. “You  _ what _ ? Crowley, that - that’s  _ illegal _ !”

“So’s getting in a bar fight, angel, and at least neither of us got hurt.”

“I - I wasn’t in a  _ fight _ .”

“Only because I stopped it happening. Nobody saw me and that place is too cheap for cameras. Relax. They’ll chalk it up to some drunk idiot thinking it was the bathroom. Happens all the time.”

Aziraphale twisted his hands together, studying his friend and then looking back down the street.

“It was Shadwell, right?” Crowley said. “Saw he had you cornered. What’d he say?”

“Absolutely  _ nothing _ worth repeating.”

“But worth grabbing him and snarling at him like you were gonna rip his throat out.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and turned away.

“I don’t blame you, Aziraphale, but it was crowded in there. You might be able to take Shadwell, but what if he had friends? I’d try to help but I’m not much good in a fight. I just. I just didn’t wanna see you get hurt.”

“I’m not angry with you.” Aziraphale sighed. “I should have had better control.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from you, it’s that we can’t always control our reactions. It’s  _ fine _ . We’re out, we’re safe, everything’s fine.”

He was right, of course. Crowley was right. Aziraphale took a deep breath and then nearly choked on it, his heart slamming against his ribcage. “Oh no, the  _ books _ !” he cried. “I forgot them! Oh, and they’ll have been trampled or spilled on or…”

“I’ve got them,” Crowley said, and sure enough, Aziraphale saw that he was holding out the brown paper bag from the bookshop. “Grabbed them on my way over to you, knew you’d throw a royal fit if you lost them.”

As if in a trance, Aziraphale stepped forward and reached out to take the bag; under his flabbergasted gaze Crowley began to blush. Aziraphale pictured those few moments in his mind: Crowley recognizing something was wrong, making a snap decision to prevent a fight any way he could, shoving open the emergency door, running back to the table to snatch up the books, and then rushing Aziraphale out the door. It had been, really, a flawlessly executed rescue, and damned if Aziraphale didn’t feel quite a bit like a swooning damsel in distress.

“Th-thank you,” he said breathlessly.

“Anything for you, angel.”

Oh, that was  _ completely _ unfair. How could he  _ possibly _ …

He couldn’t.

Aziraphale closed the short distance between them, dropped the bag of books to the pavement, took Crowley’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. Is this chapter shorter than usual?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Could I have added more?
> 
> Also yes.
> 
> Did I end it here because I'm feeling extremely dramatic at the moment?
> 
> You'd better fucking believe it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.


	14. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley come up with a plan. Kind of. It's less of a plan and more of a vague sketch, really.

For roughly two-point-five seconds, Crowley wondered if he’d hit his head and passed out and was now dreaming, but then he heard the sirens and felt the cold from the brick wall seeping through his jacket and nope, he was very much conscious and Aziraphale was definitely kissing him and why was he just standing there like a moron? An utter moron because he hadn’t responded and Aziraphale had pulled back a little and  _ shit _ what was wrong with him?

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed (and Crowley  _ felt  _ the word against his skin before he heard it). “Sorry, I…”

Nope, Crowley very much did not want to hear the rest of that sentence. He dipped forward and smothered whatever Aziraphale was going to say with his own lips, his hands clutching at the lapels of Aziraphale’s coat to keep him close. Aziraphale’s hands moved down to slip around his waist and Crowley turned them, pressing the other man against the brick and tilting his head to get a better angle. When Aziraphale sighed, Crowley decided to try for a bit more and tentatively ran his tongue over the inside of his bottom lip. He was rewarded with a whimper, and he took that as permission. He slid one hand up into those gorgeous curls and the other around the broad shoulders, and encouraged those delectable lips to open a little wider. After a few moments of thoroughly exploring every inch of Aziraphale’s mouth he remembered that there were plenty of other delightful places to discover, so he embarked on a tour of Aziraphale’s face and throat, grinning as one of the other man’s hands made its way up into his hair.

“ _ Oh _ , my dear, that’s…” Aziraphale whispered. “Crowley, I - wait, please, dearest.”

Crowley grumbled and returned to that fascinating place where Aziraphale’s jaw met his neck.

“Darling, please stop.” The request was accompanied by a gentle tug on his hair.

With a bone-deep sigh Crowley drew back a little, but he’d be damned if he stepped away entirely just yet. He combed his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair as he waited for whatever it was Aziraphale thought was so bloody important.

“We - we can’t.”

Oh. Right. That. No big deal, just a punch to the gut. He dropped his eyes to the ground and began to back away. “Sorry,” he muttered, “thought you…stupid, of course you don’t, I...”

“Oh, I do, my dear,  _ obviously _ I do,” Aziraphale said quickly, holding him fast with one arm still around his waist. “But...well, there’s Warlock to think about and…”

“Warlock knows, angel.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “He...what?”

“I mean. There’s not much to know, right, but he knows I’m mad about you. He thought we were already together, actually, saw the wing mug and…”

“I…” Aziraphale looked as if he’d been hit hard on the head. “He...and he was...he wasn’t upset?”

“A bit at first, ‘cause he thought I’d lied to him. Worked it all out though. Now he mostly just tortures me about it.”

“Oh. Well. That’s, ah. That’s good, I suppose.”

“Yeah. So…” Crowley hated that uncertain, pleading note in his voice but he’d been  _ so close _ to fulfilling about a half dozen fantasies. “No harm, no foul?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t that simple,” Aziraphale sighed, smoothing one hand over Crowley’s hair. “He is still my student. It doesn’t  _ look _ ...well, it’s just not the done thing.”

“But it’s not against the rules.”

“Not  _ technically _ , no, but getting involved with parents...it’s frowned upon.”

“Call me crazy, but you’re already involved here.” A horrible suspicion shot through him. “Unless...unless you’re not, and…”

“Oh, I am. Very much so.” 

If he weren’t so irritated, Crowley probably would have kissed him again for that admission. “Okay, so you’ve already broken the spirit of the law, right? You’re involved. D’you really think us not kissing each other is gonna change things?”

“No, of course not. But the  _ letter _ of the law, so to speak, is important, my dear. I could lose my job.”

“They can’t sack you for  _ this _ !”

“Of course they can! New York is a right-to-work state!” Crowley stared at him blankly and Aziraphale sighed. “In New York, employers don’t have to give a reason to terminate employment.”

“So Shadwell gets a pass for who the hell knows how many years, but you…”

“It isn’t certain, of course, but it’s a risk.” Aziraphale’s eyes were soft and sad. “And if I lost my job, I would have to leave. I’m only permitted to be in the States as long as I have a position.”

“Shit.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. Aziraphale, he knew, loved teaching. And while he would take any number of risks for the benefit of his students, he wasn’t willing to do the same for mere personal gratification. Crowley sighed and put a little more distance between them. “You’re right, angel. We can forget it happened, go back to the way it was.”

“Oh.” For some reason his friend looked stricken, and Crowley was now officially confused as hell. “I’m...I’m not...you want to  _ forget _ this?”

“Well, you won’t be with me properly and I’m definitely not gonna sneak around, so…where else can this go?”

Twisting his hands in front of him, Aziraphale looked as if he were searching for the answer on the pavement. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. But I don’t want to  _ forget _ , Crowley. I care about you far too much for that.”

Crowley smiled in spite of himself. “Okay, so...what?”

“Perhaps we ought to, er. Slow down, as it were.”

“Aw, shit, really? Took us four months to get here and you want to go  _ slower _ ?”

“I think we should.”

“We can’t just go on as we were?” Crowley was wheedling a little now, stepping back into Aziraphale’s space and smirking when his friend’s breath hitched.

“ _ I _ most certainly can’t,” Aziraphale said, regret tinging his tone. “Now that I’ve had a taste of you, my dear…”

Well, shit. Crowley wasn’t made of stone. He swooped in for another kiss, lightly scraping his teeth over Aziraphale’s lower lip and thrilling at the whimper he got in response.

“Oh, that was a dirty trick,” Aziraphale breathed when Crowley released him. “But you see what I mean. The temptation is too great.”

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it,” Crowley muttered, and then suddenly found himself with an armful (and mouthful) of extremely enthusiastic history teacher. His eyes went wide as Aziraphale raked his hands through his hair and devoured his mouth, and next thing Crowley knew  _ he _ was the one with his back against the wall and it felt like Aziraphale was stealing the very breath from his lungs. When the other man finally broke away Crowley legitimately thought he might faint from oxygen deprivation.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale gasped, stepping fully away from him. “Or perhaps  _ you  _ should be apologizing. Quoting Wilde at me,  _ really _ …”

“Fuck, if that’s the reaction I get every time, I’m getting myself a quote-of-the-day calendar,” Crowley said hoarsely.

“No, no, you’re only proving my point,” Aziraphale said, scuttling backwards as if afraid Crowley might lunge at him. “Do you really think either of us will be able to keep the other at arm’s length?”

Considering that Crowley was already trying to work out the quickest way to get Aziraphale to kiss him again, his friend might have a point. Damn him.

“No,” he grumbled.

“Then we need to take a step back. Much as I hate to say it, dearest, we ought to see less of each other for the moment.”

Crowley winced. “So, what? We go for coffee once a month?”

“I - I don’t think social outings are a good idea.”

“Like...at all?”

Aziraphale looked as if he were in pain. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“Right.” Crowley shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He’d been warm all over when he thought he knew where this was headed, but now the bitter chill of the winter air was getting to him. “Can we go somewhere else and do this? Think there’s an all-night cafe around here.”

Aziraphale picked up his books and they trudged along until they found the cafe. The lights were dim and the woman working at the counter looked as if she’d rather eat nails than serve them coffee, but at least they were out of the cold. Crowley stared morosely into his mug and wondered how everything had gone tits up so quickly.

“The thing is,” Aziraphale said carefully, “things could get rather nasty for everyone if we attempted to...well...hide in plain sight.”

“I get it.” Crowley knew he was being a bit short, but he couldn’t help it. “Bad for me, for you, for the kid. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I know.”

“So. No more dinner or theatre nights or afternoon coffees. Just the phone calls.” Crowley studied the tabletop.

“I’m afraid so.”

“And this goes on for how long?”

Aziraphale looked tense. “I can’t be romantically involved with the guardian of a student, my dear.”

“So until Warlock’s out of your class, then. Wait a second. You don’t just teach freshmen, do you?”

“Ah. No. I have courses at all levels.”

“And you’re his favourite teacher. Fuck.” Crowley closed his eyes and dragged one hand down his face. “Well, that settles it. Three and a half years isn’t too long, really.”

“What - what do you mean?”

Crowley opened one eyes. “What do you mean, what do I mean? If we can’t be together til he’s out of your class…”

“But you can’t mean you...goodness, Crowley, I don’t expect...if you were to...well...meet someone else...someone free to, er…”

“Nope. Not gonna happen,” Crowley said almost sharply.

“My dear, it  _ might _ .” Aziraphale looked as if he were trying to calm a particularly skittish horse. “And if it does…”

“Yeah, okay, fine.” He wanted to argue.  _ There’s no chance in heaven or hell I’ll meet someone else _ , he wanted to say.  _ No way I’d ever meet anyone who could make me forget that I love you _ . But those were heavy words, and he didn’t want to weigh Aziraphale down with them.

They sat in silence for a long time, Aziraphale fidgeting with his silverware and Crowley watching him from behind his sunglasses, saving up images for later.

“How about this?” he said suddenly, interrupting Aziraphale’s contemplation of his empty mug. “Commencement day, three years from now. I’ll be there, obviously. Warlock’ll have other things on that night. If you still want…”  _ me _ “...this, we’ll start then.”

Aziraphale looked torn. “I can’t imagine that I won’t, dearest. But I don’t want you to…not for my sake, I mean...”

“Not up to you, is it?” Crowley tried to hide his irritation. “Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself. We’re not making a blood pact or anything here, just...if it happens, it does. In three years, if you still want to, we make a go of it.”

“And if  _ you _ still want to.”

“Obviously, yeah.”

Aziraphale took a very deep breath. “Very well,” he said. “I accept your proposition. Should we shake on it?”

Crowley grinned slightly. “I’d rather seal it with a kiss.”

“Oh,  _ really _ .” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and stood.

“Aw, c’mon, angel. One more for the road?”

Maintaining a dignified silence, Aziraphale led the way out of the cafe and into the night. Crowley followed, feeling strangely lighthearted despite everything. At least now he knew for sure he wasn’t alone in this, that Aziraphale wanted him, wanted them to be together. And who knew? Maybe it wouldn’t be three years after all. Maybe the schedules at the school would change and Aziraphale would stop teaching senior courses. Anything could happen.

They’d reached the place where they usually parted ways, and Crowley’s mood dimmed somewhat. They stood silently looking at each other for what felt like hours; at last Aziraphale seemed to steel himself. “Well, then. Good night, my dear.”

Aziraphale’s voice trembled, and Crowley couldn’t help himself. He stepped forward, cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands, and pressed one final kiss to his lips. 

“See you around, angel,” he whispered. He turned and walked away, resisting the urge to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this one hurts a little, but I promise they will get there in the end, guys. I swear it.
> 
> Things that have kept me from posting:  
1) end of semester  
2) choir concert in which I sang a solo  
3) horrible evil head cold that made said solo sound terrible
> 
> However, I am now on WINTER BREAK for the next week and a half so hopefully I will get some chapters written and can post more regularly.


	15. Things to Think About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock has kind of a weird day at school, but really, is there such a thing as a normal day at this point?

Biology was actually okay, as far as Warlock was concerned. They weren’t doing anything crazy like dissecting animals (apparently that was in tenth grade and there was no fucking way he’d be caught dead cutting anything open, so Uncle AJ would have to write him a note), but at least they got to  _ do _ things instead of just sitting around taking notes. It was nice to have just the one lab partner, too, instead of trying to come up with something to say in a big group. Usually by the time he’d figured out what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it, everybody had moved on to something else and he didn’t want to sound like an idiot who couldn’t keep up. So he just didn’t say anything.

He would have liked the class better if Adam was his partner, but this was one of the few classes that he didn’t share with any of the Them. Katelynne was nice, though, and she didn’t interrupt him or finish sentences for him, and she usually did all the writing, which was fine with him because his handwriting was shit.

“I think that’s everything,” she said now, looking over the introductory questions. “Will you go get the microscope?”

He didn’t really like going up to the front of the classroom, but that was pretty much his job at this point. She did the writing, he did the fetching. Lifting the microscope, Warlock caught Mrs. Harris’s eye and quickly switched his grip so that he was supporting the base. She gave him a small smile and he ducked his head; he still wasn’t really used to teachers looking at him like that. Like he’d done something right. 

Katelynne handed him the tweezers, and they worked together to create a slide of the onion skin. It wasn’t hard, but getting the cover slip on without trapping any bubbles was harder than it looked. Finally they had a slide that would work, and Warlock clipped it into place. Katelynne leaned forward toward the eyepiece.

“Hold up,” Warlock said. “You’re supposed to put the stage down as low as it can go, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Katelynne blushed and reached for the knob at the same moment he did.

“Sorry,” Warlock said, drawing back.

“No, it’s okay. Thanks for reminding me.” Her cheeks still a little pink, Katelynne adjusted the stage and then looked through the eyepiece again, slowly focusing the microscope. They took turns looking, drawing, labeling - it was quiet, and it was nice. Biology was one of the few classes that didn’t make Warlock want to drown everything out with his headphones.

“Five minutes!” Mrs. Harris called from the front of the room. “Start cleaning up your stations, please!”

Katelynne washed the slides while Warlock returned the microscope to the front of the room. He thought things had gone pretty well, so when he got back to the table and found her red and fidgety, he was worried.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Katelynne played with her pencil. “Did - did you know about the dance next week?”

The school was holding some kind of Valentine’s Day dance. He’d seen the posters and heard the announcements just like everyone else, but...dances were lame, right? Not his thing. So he hadn’t thought much about it.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Um. Are you going?”

Warlock assumed she was talking to him and not the table, even though she hadn’t looked up at him even once.

“Probably not.”

“Oh.” If she turned any redder her hair would catch on fire. “I’m probably not either. But. If you wanted to, I would...go too.”

Warlock blinked at her. “What?”

“Never mind, it’s...I’m being stupid.”

“Are you...do you mean...together?”

“Maybe?” She finally glanced up at him, then looked away immediately. “I mean only if…”

“I - Sorry, I don’t…”

“Oh. Okay.”

“It’s just, I…” Warlock swallowed. “I have a - I’m with somebody.”

“But...you said you weren’t going?”

“We’re probably not, I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Katelynne looked like she wanted to melt into the floor. “Sorry, I just...I’ve only ever seen you hang out with the guys and Pepper, and she’s not really into boys, so I thought…sorry, I’m dumb.” She tried to smile. “Does she even go here?”

Pepper wasn’t really into  _ anyone _ , but Warlock knew it wasn’t his place to say that. “You’re not dumb,” Warlock said. “She’s not...uh, not a she. I mean.”

Forget melting, Katelynne looked like she was about to disintegrate right in front of him. “Ohmygod,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I…”

“‘Sokay,” Warlock mumbled. But he was starting to feel twitchy.

The bell rang at long last, releasing them both, and Katelynne flew out of the room, her long dark hair streaming behind her. Warlock realized his palms were sweating and his heart was pounding, and he took a second to breathe like Mr. Fell and his counselor had taught him, and to try to figure out what he was feeling. 

“Warlock? Are you alright?” Mrs. Harris looked concerned, and he counted to three before answering her.

“I...I need a few minutes to cool down,” he said. “Can I just...hang out here for a minute?”

“Of course, hon,” Mrs. Harris smiled at him. “I’ll write you a pass when you’re ready to go.”

A few months ago he would have gotten angry, yelled at Mrs. Harris to mind her own business, called Katelynne an idiot for assuming things, or threatened her about telling anyone, but he’d learned that sometimes when he felt this way he wasn’t  _ actually  _ angry.

So what was he?

Lots of things.

Embarrassed. He didn’t really talk to anyone about Adam, mostly because he didn’t talk to many people  _ besides _ Adam.

Worried. What if Katelynne told a lot of people and everyone thought there was something wrong with him and Adam?

Nervous. Did Adam tell people they were dating? They didn’t exactly hide anything, but neither of them was big on PDA so maybe they weren’t as obvious as he thought.

Guilty. He’d had no idea Katelynne liked him that way. Had he done something to lead her on? He didn’t think so.

But he wasn’t angry. Not really. He took another deep breath, then got his pass from Mrs. Harris and headed to PE. At least Katelynne had some other class this hour and they wouldn’t have to pretend nothing had happened. But Adam was going to know something was up, and then they’d have to  _ talk _ about it because apparently this was their life. Weird shit would just keep happening and they’d have to deal with it.

He decided to beat Adam to the punch. “Something weird happened in science,” he said once they were set up at the juggling station. Wensleydale was already juggling four tennis balls like some kind of glasses-wearing circus clown. “Katelynne asked me to go to the dance with her.”

Adam dropped one of his tennis balls. “Wow. Really?”

“I mean I said no, obviously.”

“Right.” Adam looked relieved and Warlock rolled his eyes.

“Cause I’d totally go to a dance with somebody else when we’re...y’know.”

“Okay. So. What’s the problem?”

“Who said there was a problem?”

“You brought it up.”

“I just didn’t know if I should tell her. Y’know. Everything. About you.”

“Why shouldn’t you? Not  _ everything _ everything, but…”

“I don’t know.” Warlock shrugged and tried to focus on adding a third ball to the two he had in the air. “We never really talked about it. About telling people.”

“Well, it’s not like we have to get up on the stage and announce it,” Adam said, shrugging. “But like, you could’ve told Katelynne you were dating me.”

“Okay.” The third tennis ball thing was just not working out, so Warlock dropped it into the bucket and focused on the two he already had. “Have  _ you _ told anybody?”

“A couple people.”

“Oh.” His face got warm. “Okay.”

“So,” Adam said after a couple of minutes, “what  _ did _ you tell Katelynne?”

“That I was with someone and we weren’t going to go anyway.”

“You don’t wanna go?”

“I dunno. Aren’t dances really lame?”

“The middle school ones were.” Adam was now juggling three tennis balls with ease. Show-off. After a minute he dropped the balls into the bucket. “But I never had a date either. Maybe that changes things.”

“Maybe.” Warlock kind of doubted it.

“If you don’t wanna go, we won’t go,” Adam said. “I just thought it might be nice. Hanging out without my mom or your uncle right in the other room.”

“There’ll be adults at the dance, genius.”

“Yeah, and about three hundred other kids. Just think about it, okay?”

He did think about it. He thought about standing in the darkened gym with Adam while music played (in his head it was good music even though he figured it would probably end up being top 40 crap), talking, dancing, and not worrying about whether his uncle was about to knock on the door and offer them soda or hot cocoa or crackers.

Could be nice, maybe.

He thought about it all through PE and social studies, and he only stopped thinking about it when Mr. Fell called his name and asked him to stay after class for a minute.

“I was wondering, Warlock, if you wouldn’t mind meeting with me before or after school tomorrow.”

Five months ago Warlock would have panicked, thinking he must have done something wrong. Now he took a second to look at Mr. Fell’s face and see that he wasn’t angry or upset, so this probably wasn’t a big deal.

“I guess not,” he said. “Why?”

“I thought we could reflect on your behavior plan and discuss how well it’s working for you - if there’s anything we need to change or adjust.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”

“No, but an important part of any plan is reflection on its effectiveness. I’ve been thinking that it might be time to eliminate some of the components. Like your cool-down pass.”

Warlock felt his heart thump harder. “But what if I need it? What if I start to hulk out again?”

Mr. Fell looked at him for a few minutes. “Why don’t we schedule this meeting for the day after tomorrow after school?” he said finally. “That will give you some time to reflect on the last few months - how often you’ve felt overwhelmed by your feelings and needed to use the pass, and how often you were able to take a moment to recognize those feelings and de-escalate yourself. I’ll also collect some feedback from your other teachers. We’ll put all of those data points together and go from there. How does that sound?”

Warlock’s heart slowed down. “Okay.” He watched as Mr. Fell wrote him a pass. “Are you gonna call Uncle AJ? Or should I just tell him?”

“I will certainly call him, but you might consider talking to him as part of your reflection. He might have useful feedback for you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Uncle AJ was more likely to shrug and wave his arms around and be like ‘you haven’t knocked over any liquor stores so you’re good in my book’ but sure, whatever. He’d ask. Just one more thing to think about, and homework on top of it. Great.

* * *

Warlock opened the apartment door just as his uncle’s phone rang, so he dropped his backpack by the couch and got out his copy of  _ The Great Gatsby _ . There would definitely be A Talk after this, so he might as well just wait for it. He rethought his plan when he realized that he could hear Uncle AJ’s side of the conversation. Should he go to his room?

“Hey.”

‘Cause sometimes these calls got a little mushy.

“‘mfine, you?”

He wouldn’t want Uncle AJ listening to his calls with Adam.

“Sounds like a good idea. Want me to be there?”

He should probably go in his room.

“Okay. Yeah. See ya then.”

Warlock closed his book and stood up, but Uncle AJ walked into the room. Wait. That was it? Since when?

“Hey, kid. Good day?”

“Not bad.” Warlock put his book down. “Was that Mr. Fell?”

“Yup. So. Feedback.” As predicted, his uncle shrugged and waved one arm in the air vaguely. “I mean, you’re not knocking over drugstores, so…”

“I still get mad,” Warlock pointed out.

“Everyone gets mad, that’s not the point. You handle it better now. Dontcha think?”

Warlock wanted to argue, but he thought about the morning, and Katelynne, and Adam, and Mr. Fell. How he would have yelled at them or stormed out or whatever. Maybe he really was handling things better now.

“I guess.”

“Okay.” Uncle AJ scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe that means you get rid of the pass, maybe not. We’ll talk about that in a couple of days, right?”

“Right.”

Apparently that was it. Fine with him. He grabbed his bag and book and headed into his room, shutting the door behind him. Tossing the bag in a corner, he flopped on his bed and sighed.

What a weird fucking day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) As much as I loved writing the last two romance-centered chapters, I missed my baby Warlock. This might not be the most exciting chapter, but he is growing and learning and I am proud of him.
> 
> 2) Do you guys have ANY IDEA how many spellings of Warlock’s lab partner’s name I have come across in thirteen years? The most elaborate so far has been "Kaytlynne."


	16. Just Keep Losin' My Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley survives the parent-teacher conference, but just barely; Warlock fares much better. Also, the Valentine's Day dance happens.

It had been two weeks. Two weeks since he’d seen Aziraphale or talked to him outside of the Weekly Warlock Update, and Crowley was handling it just fine, thank you very much. He wasn’t any crankier or moodier than usual, and he definitely didn’t catch himself thinking of things he just had to tell Aziraphale next time he saw him, and he most certainly hadn’t had any tantalizing dreams that made it a torture to wake up. Everything was fine, and he told himself that twice a day.

Then Aziraphale called to set up a conference and Crowley was forced to admit that  _ none _ of that was true.

See, they had talked on the phone twice since deciding to back off, and they’d done pretty well, he thought. They’d talked about Warlock and how he was doing at home and school, and honestly it was easy to pretend on those calls that Aziraphale was just extra busy and didn’t have time to talk and they would catch up later.

But then, on a Tuesday afternoon, his phone rang, and it was Aziraphale, and Crowley’s heart nearly catapulted itself out of his chest, because Aziraphale  _ never _ called on a Tuesday. Not about Warlock. Something had changed, something was happening, and Crowley didn’t even give himself time to imagine what that could possibly be before he snatched up his phone.

“Hey,” he said breathlessly.

“Hello, Crowley. How are you this evening?”

“‘mfine, you?”

“I’m doing very well, thank you.”

Crowley swallowed. That was not the voice of friend!Aziraphale. That was teacher!Aziraphale. Disappointment flooded him and he slumped against his desk, hating himself for getting his hopes up.

“I’m calling to tell you that Warlock and I have scheduled a conference for Thursday afternoon. I’d like to review his behaviour plan and make some changes if necessary. Your feedback would be very helpful.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Want me to be there?”

There was a brief pause. “I do.”

And  _ that _ tone was new. Low. Earnest. Mournful, even, which made Crowley feel a bit better. At least he wasn’t suffering alone.

“Okay, yeah.”

“Thursday after school.”

“See ya then.”

Another pause. “Yes. Well. Goodbye, then.”

* * *

Warlock was doing fine. Honestly. Crowley was the one who was a walking wreck. Warlock had school and friends and a boyfriend - not to mention an amazing teacher - to keep him grounded. Crowley had a shopful of rebellious plants and an absentee best friend and enough swirling thoughts to make him dizzy.

He sat in the car park on Thursday and gave himself a stern talking-to. He was  _ not _ there to gaze at, flirt with, or moon over Aziraphale. He was there to listen to reports about Warlock’s behaviour and growth, and possibly agree to changes in the plan. That was it. That was  _ all _ . Taking a deep breath, he heaved himself out of the Bentley and toward the school.  Warlock and Aziraphale were already sat in the little book nook place at the back of the classroom, their heads bent over a piece of paper. Crowley allowed himself exactly ten seconds of pathetic longing before striding over to join them.

“Ah, good evening,” Aziraphale said, his smile bright and warm, and Crowley gave up. This was going to hurt, and he might as well let it.

“Hey, Aziraphale.” He looked at the paper. “What’s all that?”

“Responses to inquiries I made regarding Warlock’s behaviour.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at Warlock. “Would you like to share your impressions so far?”

Warlock was looking a little pink around the ears. “They say I’m doing okay,” he muttered.

“What Warlock means to say,” Aziraphale said, “is that his teachers all agree that he is doing  _ wonderfully _ . That his grades are up, his work avoidance is down, and he has occasionally simply asked for a few moments to compose himself rather than leave the room entirely.” Aziraphale beamed at the kid. “We are all quite  _ dreadfully _ proud of you, Warlock.”

Yeah, no wonder the poor kid was turning beet red. That much concentrated praise would do anyone in. Crowley smirked at his nephew. “A model citizen right in my own home. This is mutiny, this is.”

“Shut up.” Warlock tugged his hood over his head and crossed his arms.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Now, then...I mentioned on Tuesday that it might be time to retire the cool-down pass. Your teachers seem to think that you haven’t been relying on it as much as you did at the beginning of the year. What do  _ you _ think?”

Warlock shrugged. “I guess not. I mean, ever since Shadwell left things have been easier. But what if we get a new teacher who does the same stuff?”

“I see.” Aziraphale thought for a moment. “First, I ought to tell you that the other teachers and I have had several constructive conversations with Mr. Clark over the last few weeks, and he has pledged to address our concerns about the policies that led to...well. The  _ unpleasantness _ .” He smiled at Warlock’s wary look. “I really don’t think you need worry about another Shadwell taking up a post at this school.”

“But…” Warlock took a deep breath. “But what if I hulk out again? I still get so mad sometimes. What if I can’t...control it?”

“We’re not meant to  _ control _ our emotions,” Aziraphale said gently. “We’re meant to acknowledge them, to understand them, and to react to them. Think of what you’ve been working on with the counselor. Has she ever asked you to  _ stop _ feeling angry?”

“No.”

“You’ve accomplished a great deal since October,” Aziraphale leaned a little closer, “but no one expects you to be perfect. Every person in this school has something they struggle with - something that threatens their peace. If you do occasionally lose a battle with your anger, no one will think the less of you. And you are  _ always _ welcome to come here if you find yourself overwhelmed, pass or no.”

“Really?”

“Of course, dear boy.”

Warlock gave a shaky little smile. “Thanks.”

Crowley was used to feeling invisible at these conferences, and right at that moment he was glad that neither of them seemed to remember he was in the room. He knew he wasn’t in control of his face, he just  _ knew _ he was staring soppily at the pair of them and wishing that…

Well. Didn’t really matter, did it? Stupid, impossible dreams.

“Have you anything to add, Crowley?”

Shit.

He wrestled his face back into an expression that might, maybe, pass for concerned or constipated or anything  _ but _ lovesick. From the roll of Warlock’s eyes, he kind of doubted it, but Crowley had an excellent imagination, so he could  _ pretend _ that he was pulling this off.

“Not really,” he said shrugging. “I mean, we’ve had a lot fewer slammed doors and sulky silences these days. And Warlock’s been doing better, too.”

Warlock groaned and rolled his eyes again, and Aziraphale chuckled. “Do you approve of the change in Warlock’s behaviour plan, then?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale made a note on his paper. “Any, ah. Any other concerns?”

Aw, fuck. There was  _ intent _ in that question, wasn’t there? Hopeful, shining eyes. Slight smile.  _ Why? _ They were supposed to be keeping their distance. Crowley felt his resolve crumbling, not that it was ever structurally sound in the first place.

“I can go start the car if you guys need to talk about something,” Warlock said. And there was just enough of a mischievous glimmer in his eyes to make Crowley proud.

And terrified.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said hastily. “I’ve, uh...dinner’s gonna take a while tonight, and...yeah. Should probably just get going.”

“Well, if you’re sure you have no further questions or concerns.” And why the hell did Aziraphale look so disappointed? This was  _ his fucking idea! _

“I’m good. Know where to find you if something pops up.” Crowley stood abruptly. “Thanks. Guess I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Ah. Yes. Well. Good night, then.”

Warlock didn’t say a word as they walked down the hall and got into the car, but Crowley could feel him thinking. Could almost hear the gears in his head turning, the pieces clicking into place. When he finally did open his mouth, Crowley flinched.

“I think Adam and I are going to the Valentine’s Day dance,” he said, and Crowley felt his whole body sag with relief.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He wants to go, I think. Plus you won’t be able to snoop.”

“Watch it. I could still volunteer to chaperone.”

“You’d love that. Standing around listening to Taylor Swift and Harry Styles. Watching us do the Cupid Shuffle. Guarding the punch bowl so no one spikes it.”

“Shit, you’ve made your point.” They were in the lift now. Almost in the clear. “I’d rather have bamboo shoots shoved up my toenails than do any of that.”

“Cool.” Warlock gave him a long look. “What’s for dinner that’s gonna take so long?”

“Um. Lasagna.” He was pretty sure he had lasagna noodles, anyway.

“Okay.” Another pause. “The dance is next Friday. Just in case you. I don’t know. Wanted to make plans or something.”

“Right.” Crowley started taking things out of cabinets (oh, there were lasagna noodles, praise be).

Warlock studied him for another minute or so before leaving the kitchen. A few seconds later Crowley heard his door close. Crowley, despite his strongest urges, did  _ not _ stop what he was doing to lean against the counter and feel sorry for himself. He had a lasagna to make, after all.

* * *

The gym looked like a Valentine had thrown up on it. Pink, white, and red hearts hung from the ceiling. Pink and white streamers lined the walls, and there were tables with white tablecloths covered in heart-shaped glitter and flickering battery-operated candles. Every single damned snack on the snack table was some shade of pink, and most were heart-shaped. There was a photo booth set up with a pink and white backdrop and lots of weird costumes. Even the tickets were pink.

“Wow,” Adam said, turning in place to take everything in. “This is... _ awful _ .”

“This was your idea,” Warlock reminded him. He felt even more out of place than usual. Most of the girls were dressed in pink or white dresses, their hair up in fancy curls and braids. The guys all looked uncomfortable in suit jackets and ties, standing stiffly next to their dates while they took pictures. Nobody had mentioned a dress code, or Warlock might have at least worn something other than his usual black cargo pants and boots. Maybe he’d have got a haircut or taken off the black nail polish.

But Adam hadn’t said anything, and  _ he  _ didn’t look any different than usual, but khakis and a polo shirt were probably okay anywhere.

“Think the food’s any good?” Adam asked.

“Probably not.”

They walked over anyway and piled their pink paper plates high with cookies, rice krispies treats, and brownies. Warlock, under the watchful eye of one of the science teachers, scooped two glasses of punch and followed Adam to one of the tables.

“Do you think anyone actually dances at these things?” Warlock asked, looking out at the empty dance floor.

Adam shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on the song probably.”

As if he’d somehow commanded it, the peppy music faded out and was replaced with strummy guitars. Warlock grinned in spite of himself. Taylor Swift. He’d been right. Meanwhile, couples were wandering out into the middle of the floor, arms around waists and necks, swaying to the music.

“We could, if you want to. Dance, I mean.”

Warlock nearly choked on a cookie. “I, uh. I don’t…”

“Or not. Whatever.”

“I just. I  _ really _ don’t dance.”

Adam shrugged. “I could teach you.”

“ _ You _ dance?”

“A little. Mom taught me.”

Who was this guy and what had he done with Warlock’s boyfriend? Warlock gaped at him.

“Nothing fast,” Adam said quickly. “There’s this box step thing you can do for slow songs. She taught me that.”

“When?”

“Huh?”

“When did she teach you this stuff?”

Adam looked away, his cheeks turning red. “Couple weeks ago.”

Adam had learned to dance  _ for the dance _ . For  _ him _ . Warlock wondered if humans could  _ actually _ explode or if it just felt like it. “Okay. Next slow song. But if you step on my toes, it’s over.”

“Sounds more like something you would do.”

Warlock stuffed a brownie in his mouth to keep from answering because, unfortunately, he was right. He probably had about three songs to prepare himself. That seemed like the pattern - three upbeat pop or hiphop songs hilariously edited to be “school appropriate” like they couldn’t just listen to the real lyrics on the internet - then one slow song. They sat there waiting (at one point Adam got up to get more food) and Warlock kept telling himself it would be fine.

The third pop song faded out, and Warlock took a deep breath.  _ Fine _ .

_ Caaaaaannnn… _

_ Anybodyyyyyy…. _

_ Find meeeeee…. _

Warlock turned at stared at Adam, who looked a little like he wanted to disappear.

“Did you…”

“Thought we could at least dance to something you like,” Adam said. He held out his hand. “Ready?”

Warlock nodded. He felt like maybe his head wasn’t really attached to his body anymore, but his hand still managed to take Adam’s. And then they were standing on the edge of the dance floor, and Adam was showing him how to move his feet, and Freddie Mercury was crooning around them, and the chaperones were busy shooing Greasy Johnson and his buddies away from the punchbowl, and nobody was looking and nobody was interrupting...

* * *

Uncle AJ was still up when he got home that night, watching  _ Golden Girls _ on Hulu. He was pretending really hard that he’d just lost track of time and not sitting around waiting for him.

“Hey, kid. How’d it go? Was it as lame as you thought it would be?”

Warlock shrugged, playing it cool even though he knew Crowley would see right through him. “It was okay.”

Uncle AJ raised his eyebrows. “Don’t gush, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Whatever.”

Warlock went to his room, but he didn’t fall asleep for awhile. School dances weren’t so lame, after all. He was even kind of looking forward to the next one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! I was finally able to write something!
> 
> I'm looking forward to Spring Break. I plan to write A LOT that week!
> 
> Thanks for all of your comments and kudos, and if you read it but don't comment, that's fine too. I appreciate every person who reads this story!


	17. Not a Chapter, more of a PSA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm trying, I really am.

I’ve been trying to write. Really I have. In the last two weeks I’ve managed, like, a page.

I just can’t settle on anything. I’m so sad and tired and worried all the time and I’m not used to feeling like this.

Our schools are closed for the rest of the year. This week we’ll be planning for “continued learning” or whatever - everything online, reduced expectations, etc. I miss my kids. I couldn’t even relax during Spring Break because we got the announcement in the middle of the week and just like that, I don’t get to be with my kiddos for the rest of the year. Possibly even into next year, who knows? I have students who are not safe at home, kids who don't get enough to eat (though our district has a wonderful plan to get food to anyone who asks, not even NEEDS, there's no need assessment, just you saying "I have X kids and we need food." Ok, great, come get it or we'll have the bus drivers bring it to you.), kids who are transitioning or questioning and now deprived of their only safe and welcoming environment. I can't stop thinking about them and worrying about them.

Yesterday the board of directors of my civic choir voted to cancel our spring concert. It was necessary obviously because we have nearly 80 members - 2/3 of which are over 50 - and our concerts regularly draw crowds of over 200 - also mostly the over-50 crowd. But now I don’t get my weekly sing-and-socialize hours.

Every day we get “press briefings” from a man who wouldn’t know the truth if it walked up to him and introduced itself. A man who called criticism of his response to COVID-19 a “Democratic hoax.” A man who claimed that the warm weather would kill the virus off. A man who opposed the evacuation of a cruise ship because he didn’t want the sick people aboard to “count against” him, because he “like[d] the numbers where they are.” A man who can’t even answer the question “What would you say to the Americans who are scared?” - instead he berates the reporter for asking it.

And I’m supposed to be writing a light-hearted “what if one of them was a teacher and the other was a parent and they fell in LOVE” story and I just. It’s hard right now, guys.

I’m sorry.


	18. In Like a Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends and strangers throw our boys for a little bit of a loop just as Spring Break begins.

Aziraphale didn’t know exactly what he’d expected when he’d suggested that he and Crowley stop seeing each other, but if he’d had any idea just how much he would miss his friend, he never would have made the suggestion in the first place. Evenings that had once felt pleasantly solitary were now unbearably lonely, and nothing tasted quite the same without Crowley sat across from him.

The conference over Warlock’s behaviour plan had made everything worse. Well, not everything, surely. Warlock was doing splendidly, after all. But if he’d thought that a ten-minute meeting would satisfy his craving for Crowley’s company, he’d been sorely mistaken. Instead he’d felt like a starving man tied to a chair at a banquet. It had been excruciating. To make matters worse, it was now nearly four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, and he would normally be about to call Crowley to talk about Warlock’s week, but the previous night’s conference had rendered the telephone call unnecessary. He had no pretense for calling, and besides, he was no longer entirely sure Crowley wanted him to. He had rushed off so quickly, and with such a flimsy excuse.

What if, Aziraphale thought, dread turning his stomach, their time away from each other had dulled Crowley’s interest in him? People loved to say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but they always forgot that there was a second part to the line.

_ Absence makes the heart grow fonder...or forgetful. _

“Aziraphale?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin before turning to look at his classroom door. “Goodness, Anathema. Why are you here so late?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” The language arts teacher leaned against his doorframe. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course. Why would it be otherwise?”

Large dark eyes narrowed behind tortoise-shell glasses. “Your aura is off.” Anathema did not claim to share her ancestor’s gift for prophecy, but she was rather adamant about her ability to read auras. And while Aziraphale might not  _ believe _ in auras, not in any meaningful way, he could not deny that Anathema seemed unusually perceptive.

“Ah. How so?”

“You’re usually this nice, cheerful yellow. Like our own personal sun, y’know? But it’s...I don’t know. Greying somewhat.” She took a step inside the classroom. “Usually grey means depression or sadness. You haven’t had any bad news recently, have you?”

“Certainly not. Really, my dear, everything is just fine.”

She looked skeptical. “Okay. So...Tracy, Newt, and I were going to go for drinks. Care to join us?”

He had received similar invitations frequently over the long course of his career. He nearly always declined. Anathema knew this; he could see in her eyes that she fully expected to walk away empty-handed. They were both surprised when he said, quite distinctly,

“That sounds lovely, thank you. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Oh.” Anathema blinked. “O-okay. Great. Awesome!” Suddenly her smile was blindingly bright. “Finally. I was wondering if I’d ever wear you down. See you downstairs.” She pranced away, and Aziraphale asked himself what exactly he thought this would accomplish.

_ Well, for starters, you won’t sit about moping over Crowley all night, _ he thought rather waspishly. Besides, Anathema, Newt, and Tracy were delightful people, and Anathema at least had been extending the hand of friendship for a long time. It was about time he returned the gesture. The looks of surprised pleasure that met his appearance in the entryway, he accepted as further proof that he was doing the right thing.

His courage nearly failed him when he realized they had led him to the very same bar from which Crowley had rescued him three weeks ago, but he steeled himself and slid into a booth beside Tracy and smiled. Tracy returned the smile and gave his arm a gentle poke with a long red fingernail.

“You  _ are _ real. I thought I was hallucinating you.”

Aziraphale chuckled. Marjorie Potts, Tracy to her friends, was one of the most colourful people he’d ever met, literally as well as figuratively. Her hair seemed to change colours with the season - brassy red one month, a soft blond the next - and she loved to experiment with clothes and cosmetics. Aziraphale, who had been wearing the same five jumpers for the last fifteen years, found her constantly evolving style fascinating. “How have you been, my dear?”

“Oh, wonderful. I always am.” Tracy winked and took a sip of her wine. “What have  _ you _ been up to?”

“Oh. Ah. Nothing. Nothing much.”

Tracy raised her eyebrows, but Anathema and Newt chose that moment to slide into their seats with their drinks, and Anathema was apparently on a mission.

“To the weekend!” she said, raising her glass. “May they all take this time to run in circles around Prospect Park until they fall over from exhaustion.”

“They have been a little more... _ them _ than usual,” Newt said.

“Spring Fever,” Tracy sighed. “Happens every year.”

“I ran into a pushup contest in the hallway yesterday.” Anathema rolled her eyes. “Like, I appreciate your energy, but there’s a time and place.”

“I think that’s partially Charlie’s fault,” Newt said, in reference to the new physical education teacher. “He’s planning some kind of tournament for the end of the year and the kids are really excited about it.”

“Wensleydale won’t stop juggling things in my classroom.” Tracy sighed. “He’s determined to win, and honestly, I’m rooting for him.”

“We’re not going to talk about work the whole night, are we?” Anathema asked.

“You brought it up.” Newt cowered a little when she glared at him. “I mean, uh. No. No, we’re not.”

“Good. Because I don’t know if you guys noticed, but I managed something pretty incredible.” Aziraphale blushed when all three of them turned to look at him. Anathema smiled and rested her chin on her hand. “So.  _ Mr. _ Fell. Guardian of the defenseless and patron saint of misunderstood teenagers. I know a few kids who want to name you supreme ruler of the universe.”

Had he thought he was blushing before? He’d been wrong.  _ Now _ he was blushing. Either that, or his face had caught on fire. “I’d make a terrible supreme ruler,” he joked feebly. “My French is appalling.”

Tracy patted his hand. “We all know better than to believe the rumour mill,” she said, “but no one can deny that certain of our students would be in very different places if it weren’t for you.”

“That’s true of all of us,” Aziraphale protested. “Every single one of you makes a difference in our students’ lives.”

“But not all of us stand in the office yelling at the principal,” Newt said.

“Oh, I didn’t...that wasn’t exactly…”

“Anyway, you’re basically a hero,” Anathema said. “And you’ve never come out with us before and I’ve got all kinds of questions. What do you do when you’re not standing up for the equitable treatment of children everywhere? Do you have a base of operations? Is there a Supreme Spouse or Significant Other?”

“For heaven’s sake, Anathema, let the man breathe.” Tracy smiled at him. “You don’t have to answer any of that, Aziraphale.”

“I read, mostly,” Aziraphale said, hoping the dullness of this answer would fend off any more questions. “Biographies, memoirs, histories. The occasional play or film. Same as anyone, I suppose.”

“Any family in the area? Or are they all across the pond?”

“No one locally. No one at all, really. My parents died several years ago and I was an only child. I…”

Aziraphale’s voice died in his throat. The door had swung open and a tall, lanky man dressed all in black had sauntered in and swung himself onto a stool. On second glance, the man was clearly  _ not _ Crowley. His hair was black rather than red, and he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, but for a wild moment Aziraphale had thought…

Well. It didn’t matter now, of course. But briefly, all too briefly, he’d thought they had ended up together, in this bar, again, and he would have been forced to take such a circumstance as a sign from the universe.

“Earth to Aziraphale. You okay?”

“Fine!” Aziraphale blinked and snapped his attention back to his companions. “Ah. Fine.”

Tracy smiled sympathetically at him. “You could invite him to join us, you know. Or join him. We wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Huh?” Anathema spun around to look and Aziraphale resisted the urge to cover his face with his hands. “Oh. He’s cute. Kind of on the scrawny side.” Her eyes narrowed. “Actually, he looks a little familiar.”

“No.” Aziraphale said, his voice a little more wobbly than he would have liked. “No, that’s not. I thought I saw… Never mind.”

“You thought he was someone else?” Anathema’s eyes grew wide. “You did! There  _ is _ a Supreme SO!” But her triumphant grin crumpled at whatever expression she saw on his face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Excuse me a moment.”

Later, Aziraphale would berate himself for his rudeness, but as he shuffled out of the booth and hurried for the loo, he couldn’t quite muster the energy to care. He leaned against the sink and stared into the mirror, and gave himself a thorough scolding. The whole point of this exercise, after all, was to  _ not _ think about Crowley. And the fact that Crowley was not his significant other was entirely his own fault.  _ He _ had been the one to draw back, to have doubts, to value his career over what they might have had.  _ He _ had insisted on this distance, and if the distance had grown too great to cross, that was his own doing. There was no point in crying over spilled milk.

When he returned, he found that Newt was regaling the table with tales of his adventures in the world of tabletop gaming. “You really ought to try it, Ana,” he was saying. “It’s all about storytelling and world-building.”

“Maybe I will,” Anathema said thoughtfully, stirring her drink idly. “When’s your next game night?”

“Oh.” Newt went a bit red. “Well, I mean, we’re nearly at the end of this campaign and a new character wouldn’t last long...maybe you could join the next one?”

“But I can come and watch, right? Get a feel for it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll, uh. I’ll text you the details.”

“Cool.”

Newt looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but was grateful for whatever it was. Aziraphale reclaimed his seat and Tracy smiled at him, but spoke to the table at large. “Any plans for Spring Break, dears?”

“I’m going home for the week,” Anathema said promptly. “I haven’t seen my mother since last summer, and she has all kinds of stuff planned.”

“You’ll have good weather for it,” Newt said.

“Malibu always has good weather.” Anathema did not sound overjoyed. “It gets boring. Give me a good, spooky New England fall any day.”

“Well, I plan to spend some time with my sister,” Tracy said. “Her husband left her a month ago, poor thing - not that she’s not better off without him - and she’s feeling a little blue.”

“I don’t really have plans,” Newt said dejectedly. “Mom wants me to help her set up her new smart TV and I’m running out of excuses not to. So it’ll probably explode and I’ll have to buy her a new one and have someone install it."

“Not that we don’t love having you, but how did you get your job?” Anathema asked, her lips twitching.

“It’s not like Gabriel put a computer in front of me and told me to hack into the mainframe.” Newt sighed. “I interviewed, just like the rest of you.”

“How about you Aziraphale?” Tracy asked. “Any plans?”

“Not really.” Aziraphale stared into the middle distance and thought. “It’s been ages since I had a proper holiday.”

“Heaven knows you’ve earned it.” Tracy patted his arm. “You should get away. Take a nice little vacation just for yourself. Forget about all of  _ this _ ,” she waved an arm around them, “and just  _ relax _ .”

“If you end up on a beach somewhere sipping drinks from a coconut, though, you have to get someone to take a picture,” Anathema interrupted. “It can be your staff picture for the yearbook.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, really. Aziraphale thought it over as he wandered home, just enough wine in his system to make the cool night air pleasant. He really  _ hadn’t _ gone on holiday in a donkey’s age, and. Well. He really had no reason to stay, did he?

* * *

Warlock heard the doorbell ring and wondered if this was it, if this was finally the moment that his uncle and his teacher stopped being so weird and started hanging out again. He hadn’t noticed at first, and then he noticed and tried not to care, but it was starting to get kind of obvious that something had happened.

For one thing, the Weekly Warlock Update phone calls - Uncle AJ’s dorky name for them, not his - were shorter, and he hadn’t caught them talking about stupid things in a long time.

For another, his uncle was home all the time now, just...being there. At first he thought maybe he was being an asshole and trying to check up on him and Adam, but mostly he watched  _ Golden Girls _ or  _ Restaurant Impossible _ and only occasionally bugged them with offers of snacks. Besides, Uncle AJ trusted him.

Mr. Fell was acting a little differently too. He was still ridiculously nice and fun and never tried to make him talk in class when he didn’t feel like it, but he smiled less and he was quieter. He’d also stopped sharing at the beginning of class. Not that he ever talked about himself a lot, but now...nothing. Not even when people asked him.

So things were weird with Mr. Fell and Warlock kind of didn’t want to know because they were adults and that was gross, but also he kind of  _ did _ because…

Well, he knew what would happen if he and Adam stopped hanging out. He knew Crowley would talk to him about it, take him for ice cream, and just try to make him feel better. That should go both ways, shouldn’t it? Warlock didn’t know. His own parents sure as fuck never talked to him about anything, and he had literally no experience with stuff like this. This weird, sudden, quiet sort of  _ nothing _ that had suddenly come down and made everything feel just a little bit wrong. He was used to yelling and cursing and “you’re meant to be with  _ me _ , God _ dammit _ , Tad!” and “oh you’re imagining things, Harriet.”

He wasn’t used to adults who were just...sad. And no matter how Uncle AJ tried to hide it with his weird old people sitcoms and his jokes and the random cookies that had started appearing every other day, the sadness was there. Warlock had no idea what to do.

“Uh, kid?” Uncle AJ stuck his head in through the slightly open bedroom door. “Someone here to see you.”

To see  _ him _ . So, probably not Mr. Fell, then. And it wouldn’t be Adam because Adam didn’t bother ringing the doorbell anymore. Warlock set his controller and headset down and walked out to the living room. Two steps in he stopped short.

“ _ Mom? _ ”

Harriet Dowling stood in her brother’s living room, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Warlock stared at her for a few minutes, hating every single instinct in his body - the one that told him to rush forward and hug her, and the one that told him to yell and throw things, and the one that told him to run out the front door and never come back. Uncle AJ was hovering behind him and Warlock could feel the anxiety coming off him in waves, so he took a deep breath and said the first thing that came to mind that wasn’t a curse word.

“Hey.”

“Oh, look at you,” his mother said, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Goodness, Warlock, you’ve grown so  _ tall _ . And your hair - I haven’t seen it that long since you were in nursery school.”

Warlock fidgeted, the ends of his hair suddenly scratchy on the back of his neck.

“Oh, no, I didn’t...I  _ like _ it, dear. It suits you.”

“What are you doing here?”

Harriet glanced behind him and then sat gingerly on the couch. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. I missed you.”

“Whose fault is that?”

His mom’s face twisted a little and Warlock felt a hand land gently on his shoulder. He looked back and met Uncle AJ’s eyes; their expression said, very clearly,  _ Give her a break, kid _ . He decided he could do that. Besides, she wouldn’t be here if his uncle thought she was going to do something dumb, and if she  _ did _ do something dumb Uncle AJ would kick her out. Relaxing a little, he stepped forward and sat in one of the chairs.

“Is Dad here too?”

“Oh. No, darling. You know how busy your father is. He tried, but he just couldn’t get away.”

Shocker. Warlock tried not to roll his eyes.

“So. Tony tells me you’re doing well in school.”

“Not bad. I still suck at math but at least I’m not failing.”

“And you’ve made...friends?”

“Yeah.” He paused for a second before adding. “And I’m dating someone.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “You  _ are _ ? That’s...well that’s wonderful!”

“Yeah.” Warlock lifted his chin. “He’s pretty great.”

“If Tony’s let him anywhere near you, he must be,” his mother said with a smile that looked a lot less shaky.

And wow, okay. Major points for that reaction. Warlock relaxed further. “So...really, why are you here? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong, but...you have a holiday coming up, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Spring Break. Next week.”

“Well, I thought,” and his mom looked nervous again, “I thought if you liked, I could spend the holiday with you. Perhaps we could go sightseeing or on a little day trip or...anything you wanted, really.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. We wouldn’t have time to go far, but there are some lovely places only a day’s drive from here.”

Warlock stared at her until she looked down at her hands. “Why?”

“I...I’m not a good mother, Warlock. I know that. But I would like to try to be better. If you don’t want to give me that chance, though, I understand.”

Shrugging, Warlock stared at the coffee table.

“Perhaps you need some time.” Harriet rose. “Why don’t you take a day or two to think about it and then call me?”

“What, you’re actually going to answer your phone?” Warlock snapped. He felt a little bad when she winced again.

“Yes.” She looked behind him again, then took a small step forward. “I...I hope to hear from you, dear.” For one horrible second he thought she might try to kiss him or something, but she didn’t. She just nodded at Uncle AJ and then walked out.

Warlock turned to look at his uncle when she was gone. “What the hell was that?”

Uncle AJ looked lost. “No clue. She didn’t even call first.”

“Does she mean it?”

“I can’t answer that, kid.” Crowley sat on the couch. “I don’t know what’s going on in her head. She doesn’t usually lie.”

“I guess not.” But you could never tell what she really meant or wanted. At least, Warlock couldn’t.

“We could start small, y’know? Have her for dinner, take her to the zoo and the garden. You don’t have to go riding off into the sunset with her if you don’t want to.”

“You’d come with us, though, right?”

“I…” Uncle AJ sighed and messed with his hair. “If you want me to, yeah.”

“I just...I never really got along with her.”

“Neither did I. Don’t know that I’d be much help.”

Warlock shrugged.

“Anyway. Let’s start with dinner. We could have Adam and his parents over too, yeah? Less pressure that way.”

“Yeah.” There was a weird little shaky feeling in his stomach at the thought of introducing his boyfriend to his mother. What if they hated each other? Would he care if his mom didn’t like Adam? He hated the thought that he might care. Just a little. Which was stupid, because it wasn’t like she was going to stick around.

He hadn’t felt this confused in a long time.  _ Why was she here? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone!
> 
> I contemplated deleting the PSA masquerading as Chapter 17 but I have a feeling that a few decades from now primary sources are going to be very important so I'm leaving it up. Also there are scores of wonderful, uplifting, supportive comments that I'm afraid to lose. I don't think I answered many (any) of them but they have been read and reread when I was having particularly bad days.
> 
> I can't make any promises about when the next chapter will be up. Probably a couple of weeks. But I feel the dark fog lifting so it definitely shouldn't take another month.
> 
> Thanks for your support and your help. I've appreciated it more than I can say.


	19. Bon Apetit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Youngs come for dinner, and it goes as well as it was ever going to.
> 
> Crowley still doesn't know what's going on with Harriet.

Warlock wondered if high school freshmen could have heart attacks. He was sitting in the living room waiting for Adam and his parents to show up for dinner and his heart felt like it was tap dancing in his chest. He could hear Uncle AJ rattling around in the kitchen and his mom was in another room talking to someone on the phone and he was just sitting here, staring at the door and willing it to open.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Harriet said, and Warlock jumped. He hadn’t even heard her come in. “Mrs. Higgins says hello. Do you remember her?”

“Yeah.”  _ Of course _ he remembered Mrs. Higgins. She’d been their housekeeper his entire life and she’d only retired the year before he left. “What’s she doing now?”

“She has a little house in Devon, right near the shore. It sounds very relaxing.”

“Cool.” Distantly Warlock heard the  _ ding _ of the elevator arriving on their floor. His heart pounded faster. “I think they’re here.”

Sure enough, a few seconds later the door opened and the Youngs trooped in. Harriet looked a little surprised, but she didn’t say anything. Uncle AJ appeared in the kitchen archway just as Warlock was taking Deirdre’s coat.

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman?” Deirdre said with a smile. Warlock ducked his head, embarrassed. He was relieved when she moved on to his mother. “You must be Harriet. It’s so nice to meet you!”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” his mother replied. “I’ve heard  _ so _ much about you all.”

“She has?” Adam murmured next to him.

Warlock shook his head, hiding his frown by carefully hanging his guests’ coats in the hall closet.

“This is my Arthur,” Deirdre was saying, her hand winding around her husband’s elbow, “and our son Adam is… Adam! Come say hello!”

Adam gave Warlock’s arm a reassuring squeeze and then did as his mother asked, running one hand through his nicely-combed curls and completely messing them up. Warlock smirked.

“Hi, Mrs. Dowling. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, do call me Harriet. I feel as if I know you already, Adam.”

There was the briefest pause. Warlock saw Adam’s parents exchange a glance and his stomach did something weird. This was gonna suck.

“Have a seat, folks,” Uncle AJ said from the archway. “Anything to drink?”

They all gave their drink orders and Warlock wandered to the dining room, wary of leaving his mother alone with his boyfriend for any amount of time.

“Need any help, Crowley?” Deirdre asked.

“Nah, it’s fine. Be ready in no time.” Uncle AJ followed Warlock to the bar and, when they were out of sight of the others, pulled him into a tight one-armed hug.

“Hey, what…”

“Relax, kid. I know she’s laying it on a bit thick, but she’s just trying to make a good impression. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“But…”

“If she gets to be too much, just go in your room for a bit. Nobody’ll mind. Remember, you can’t control other people’s behaviour. Just yours.”

“Yeah.” Warlock took a deep breath. “Okay.” He slipped out of the hug and started putting ice in glasses and then pouring just the right amount of each drink. He was trying to figure out how he was going to get three glasses into the living room when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Need help?” Adam asked.

Wordlessly, Warlock handed him the Scotch. If he said anything, he’d just end up apologizing and freaking out. They walked out into the living room, handed the drinks around, and then sat awkwardly on the couch while the adults agreed that the weather was beautiful for the time of year, and goodness wasn’t that one movie just  _ wonderful _ , and how long was Harriet in town?

“Only a week, I’m afraid,” Harriet said. “I was dreadfully worried I wouldn’t even have  _ that  _ much time, but I was determined to make it work. It’s been so long since we were together.”

Warlock felt Adam stiffen next to him, and he nudged his boyfriend’s foot with his own.

Deirdre smiled. “Well, I hope you’ll make the most of your time while you’re here. Warlock’s practically one of us now, he can show you everything worth seeing. Are you planning to stick to the city?”

“I had thought of taking a little day trip, but I’m not quite sure where.”

The Youngs started offering suggestions, and Adam relaxed enough to jump in now and then. Warlock didn’t feel up to talking, but he listened, and he started to get ideas too. By the time Uncle AJ announced that dinner was ready, everyone seemed to be getting along fine.

Of course that was when things started to get a little weird.

“So, Adam,” Harriet said when everyone had started eating, “I haven’t had the chance to talk with you, really. What do you enjoy most about school?”

Adam chewed on a green bean thoughtfully before answering. “Not much. I like English okay. Ms. Device lets us spend time writing our own stuff, so that’s cool. And gym. It’s been a lot more fun since we got a new teacher.” His face turned bright red and Warlock stared at his plate.

Harriet, however, didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she didn’t remember  _ why _ , exactly, they had a new gym teacher. “You’re a writer?”

“Kind of.” Adam shrugged. “I’m working on a graphic novel right now.”

“Fascinating.”

“I play football, too. In the fall, I mean.”

“Really? What position?”

“Quarterback.”

Harriet looked confused for a second, and then she laughed. “Oh! Of course. You meant  _ American  _ football. Well, Tad will be thrilled. He was always a little disappointed that Warlock took so little interest in sports.”

“I like sports fine,” Warlock said before he could stop himself. “I just don’t see the point of a bunch of people crashing into each other and giving themselves concussions.”

“Now, dear, you know how  _ I _ feel about American football. But playing sports could have kept you out of trouble, and anything would have been better than sitting in your room blasting that awful music.”

“He’s taught me a lot about music,” Adam said quickly. “Some of that older stuff is a lot cooler than I thought it was.”

“Personally, I think the boys bring out the best in each other,” Deirdre said. “We were thrilled when they started seeing each other, and now Warlock is practically part of the family.”

Harriet smiled. Warlock recognized that smile. He only ever saw it when someone had pissed her off but there were people around and she didn’t want them to know. He felt his heart start tap dancing again and his head felt hot.

“I, uh.” He swallowed. “Excuse me.” Carefully he set his silverware down, pushed back from the table, and walked to his room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands, taking deep breaths.

It was okay. It was okay. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and there was no reason to be scared. Uncle AJ was here. Mr. and Mrs. Young were here. Adam was here. And they were all on his side. She could sit there and throw his father’s disappointment at him, and pretend like sports were the only thing wrong with him, and tell everybody it was his own fault he was such an asshole and she'd had to ship him off, it didn’t matter. She could do whatever, and it didn’t matter.

Slowly his heart rate slowed back to normal, and he went back to the dining room. Everybody was teasing Mr. Young about something, so he was able to get back in his seat without anyone looking at him.

“Not my fault you didn’t check the kennel,” Adam was saying.

“Well, silly me for thinking you would actually follow the rules,” Mr. Young huffed, but he was smiling. “Anyway,” he said, looking at Harriet, “so I come home late, and as far as I know Dog is shut up in his kennel in the kitchen, so I go in to kiss Adam goodnight, pull back the covers, and…” he waved his hand in front of his face “dog tongue, right on the mouth.”

“I thought someone had broken in, the way he was shouting,” Deirdre said over the laughter. 

“Dog wouldn’t go near him for days,” Adam said.

Harriet caught her breath. “Goodness. I’m not sure whom I pity more.”

“Don’t pity that silly mongrel,” Arthur reassured her. “He’s the most spoiled dog in the world.”

“He is not!”

“He really is.” Warlock grinned when Adam glared at him. “Dude. Yesterday you were complaining that he takes up too much space on the bed. It’s  _ your bed _ .”

“Sure, gang up on me,” Adam muttered, poking at a green bean with his fork.

“Hey, kid, help me get dessert?” Uncle AJ asked. Warlock looked up.

“There’s  _ dessert _ ?”

“‘Course there’s dessert. I’m an excellent host.”

“You never make dessert for  _ me _ .”

“Back atcha.”

Warlock rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” But he got up from his chair and followed his uncle into the kitchen, where Uncle AJ pulled a pie out of the refrigerator.

“Whoa. You made a coconut cream pie?”

“Nah, that shit takes forever. Got this from the bakery a few blocks over.”

Warlock smirked.

“Shut up. Pour the coffee, yeah? And take out the cream and sugar.”

He did as he was told, still thinking of ways he could make fun of Crowley for this later. While everyone hummed and complimented Crowley on the pie, Warlock relaxed fully again. By the time the Youngs got up to leave, Harriet and Dierdre had exchanged numbers and were promising to stay in touch.

When everyone was gone, he helped Crowley clear the dishes and then went to sit with his mom in the living room. She was still picking at her slice of pie. She looked up at Warlock with a small smile on her face.

“If Tony really made this pie, I’m the Queen of England,” she said.

Warlock laughed, startled. “How did you know?”

“He’s my big brother, I’ve known him all my life” she pointed out. “He doesn’t have the patience to stir a custard for an hour.”

“He’s patient,” Warlock protested.

“Oh, yes. With people, endlessly. But have you ever been to the cinema with him? He’s a nightmare.” She looked into her coffee mug and took a deep breath. “Well. Your boyfriend is a charming young man.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty cool.” Warlock fidgeted. “Mom, did you...did you  _ know _ ?”

“Know what, dear?”

“That I’m. Y’know.” He felt his face turning red. “Gay.”

Harriet thought for a few minutes. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I did, really, but when you told me about Adam I...well, I wasn’t at all surprised. You’d never much cared for girls, but I thought perhaps you simply hadn’t met one you liked.”

“You were kind of right.”

“I suppose I was.” She smiled. “Have you thought at all about what you’d like to do next week?”

“I don’t know.” Warlock sat a little forward in his chair. “There’s a lot of stuff to do here. But...going somewhere could be cool too.”

Uncle AJ wandered into the room. “Alright? Hattie, more coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Harriet set her mug down on the coffee table. “Why don’t we meet for lunch tomorrow, Warlock? You can make a list of what you’d like to do and we can come up with a plan.”

“Okay.” He glanced at his uncle, who nodded. “I guess...I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

This time when she stepped closer he didn’t flinch away, and she bent to press a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well, dear.”

* * *

Crowley tossed his dishtowel into the basket and sighed. The dinner with the Youngs had been okay - thank Someone for Deirdre Young, who could make conversation with a stone - and Harriet and Adam had got along alright. He caught a few glances between the boys that made him think Adam was a bit less impressed than he let on, but he was a good kid. He kept things nice and respectful, and Crowley liked him better for it.

Warlock spent the rest of the evening making a list of places to go and things to do, and Crowley grinned when he saw that the zoo and the botanical garden were on it. He thought about teasing the kid, but thought better of it. Eventually Warlock took his list, muttering about Crowley being nosy, and shut himself in his room.

Crowley still wasn’t sure what his sister was up to, but he didn’t believe she’d just been gripped with the urge to see her son and had flown over for that express purpose. He wished he could, because Warlock deserved to have a mum who cared that much. He knew Harriet, though, and she was just...not that person. His greatest fear now was that she would suddenly disappear - some emergency or appointment or whatever would pop up and off she’d run, and he’d be stuck with a heartbroken, angry teenager.

It wasn’t a good idea, but...he needed to talk to someone, and he only really had the one friend. Well, Deirdre would probably listen to him but she seemed to have a neutral-to-positive impression of Harriet and for the boys’ sake he’d like to keep it that way. He huffed a breath and tapped out a message to Aziraphale, hoping he wasn’t overstepping.

_ hey need to talk if that’s ok. weird shit happening around here _

Five minutes passed, and Crowley began to worry that he’d done the wrong thing, and then the phone rang. Startled, he took a few rings to answer.

“Hey. Thanks for, uh. I thought we’d just text.”

“Oh. So sorry.” Aziraphale’s voice was a balm to his rattled nerves. “Ought I to...we could ring off and…”

“Nono, it’s good. Better.” Crowley shut himself in his room and threw himself on his bed. “How’ve you been?”

“Ah. Fair. You?”

“Not bad.” He thought about how honest he wanted to be. “Bit bored.”  _ Lonely. Missing you like crazy _ . Nope. Not fair to lay all that on him.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “You said that something odd had happened? Is Warlock alright?”

“Yeah, fine. It’s...his mum’s in town. First he’s seen her since he moved here.”

“Gosh. But no one’s ill or injured?”

“Nope. She didn’t even call, just. Showed up. Wanting to spend Spring Break with her kid.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I know he’s missed her.”

“Could be. I just wish I knew why she was here.”

“I thought you said she wanted to spend Spring Break with Warlock?”

“That’s what she says.”

A pause. “You don’t believe her?”

Crowley sighed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know how to explain this. She’s...dramatic.”

Another pause. “Goodness. I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

“Oi, shut it. Not like...she...” He sighed in frustration. “Look, she met the Youngs tonight, right? Now, I’ve never said anything about them to her. Warlock hasn’t. But she shakes Deirdre’s hand and says she’s heard  _ so much about you _ .”

“Hm.”

“She...she has this script, see. What to say in any situation. What she’s supposed to do, or want, or feel. She says she missed Warlock and maybe she did. But maybe she’s just saying she did because she knows she’s supposed to.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I believe the word you were looking for was  _ performative _ .”

“Yeah that’s it. Just. It’s always a show with her. Until she snaps and does what she wants to do no matter how it looks.”

“She sounds as if she’s under an awful lot of pressure, poor thing.”

“I...” Crowley took the phone away from his ear and gaped at it for a moment. Then he thought about Tad, and being a diplomat’s wife, and living in England where the gutter press was truly  _ horrible _ , and the stupid sky-high expectations from their stupid posh family… “Shit, I never thought of it like that,” he grumbled. “Yeah.”

“That doesn’t in any way excuse her treatment of Warlock,” Aziraphale said quickly.

“Yeah, obviously. I just wish I knew if she was going to stick around or if she’s gonna disappear without a word.”

“You can’t control her behaviour, Crowley. You can only control yours.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley huffed. “Told Warlock that tonight.”

“Well, it is  _ brilliant _ advice.”

“Shut up.”

There was another moment of silence. “Warlock knows that he can trust you, that he is safe with you. Even if his mother disappoints him, he’ll have you to lean on. He will be alright.”

Crowley’s chest felt as if it might crack open any moment, and the words slipped out before he could stop them. “I miss you.”

“Oh, my  _ dear _ .” Aziraphale’s voice quivered. “I miss you, too.”

They sat in those admissions for several moments, and then Crowley cleared his throat. “Right. Should probably let you go. Thanks for the talk, angel.”

“You’re quite welcome. Sleep well, darling.”

_ Darling. _ He could live on that for a few weeks. “You, too.”

When he’d rung off, he lay in the dark and the silence until a knock sounded on his door.

“What?” he called.

“Did you go to bed already?”

“Erm. No? Do you need something?”

“Yeah. Do you think we’ll have enough time to go to MoMA  _ and _ the Met?”

Crowley frowned. “Since when do you care about the Met?”

“Mom’ll like it.” There was a pause. “Why are we talking through the door?”

_ She’ll like it if she’s still here _ . Crowley frowned and shook his head. No point being more of a pessimistic bugger than he had to be. Then he opened the door. “Show me what you’ve got, kid. We’ll figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So look this was just... a lot of talking, right?
> 
> I hope it's still interesting, and I swear it sets up future plot points.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, kudosing and commenting. Everyone please stay safe!


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